



















Class_ 'r ■ - 5 _ 

Book_ 3 8- & S m. 

Copyright N°.__ 


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SUCH IS LIFE. 





































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THE LIBRARY OF CHOICE FICTION 


SUCH IS LIFE 

(COMME DANS LA VIE) 


ALBERT DELPIT 


TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 


ALEXINA LORANGER 

— 

/V/£ 'y 

CHICAGO 

Laird & Lee Publishers 
1891 





















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* * 

* * 

* ft' * 

♦ 




CONTENTS 


PART FIRST—THE STRUGGLE 

I Saint-Maurice College. 7 

II Alice and Aristide. 15 

III Bankruptcy and Suicide. 25 

IV The Betrothal. 34 

V Roland’s Discouragement. 41 

VI Roland Meets an Old Friend. 53 

VII Monsieur Salverte. 62 

VIII Conductor-in-Chief. 69 

IX Rent’s Proposition. 76 

X Mrs. Readish. 83 

XI Departure for America. 92 

XII The ^orphinomaniac.105 

XIII The Cow-boys.112 

XIV The Willow Creek Tragedy.122 

XV The Hospital at Pierre.129 

XVI “I Will Leave Nothing to Chance”.135 

XVII The Lottery Ticket . 141 

PART SECOND—LOVE 

I The Debut.151 

II The Cottage at Passy.163 

III Florence's Secret. 170 


v 























VI 


CONTENTS 


IV The Proposal. 178 

V Roland’s Despair.190 

VI Nelly’s News. 197 

VII Plans of Vengeance.209 

VIII The Recognition. 217 

IX Philosophical Reasonings.225 

X The Marriage.231 

XI The Honeymoon. 236 

XII The Specter.247 

PART THIRD—REMORSE 

I Francois Chevrin.257 

II The Rescue...266 

III The Shadow on the Wall.271 

IV The Accusation.280 

V The Mysterious Visitor.287 

VI The Murder.293 

VII The Clew. 301 

VIII The Brother and Sister.307 

IX The Suicide.318 

X Conclusion. 329 





















SUCH IS LIFE 


PART FIRST—THE STRUGGLE 

In the empty field of conscience, a state exists; and as this state 
of conscience tends to be aroused into action, the action follows.— 
77/. Riboty “Les Maladies de la Volonte.'‘ 


I 

SAINT-MAURICE COLLEGE 

M. Saeton pressed the electric button with the 
tip of his finger; a grave-looking usher, with the 
manners of adiplomate, almost immediately entered 
in response. 

“Has the recreation bell rung, Philippe?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, Monsieur le Directeur. ” 

“Then, pray go down to the second court and tell 
the tutor, M. Roland Salbert, that I wish to speak 
to him,” said M. Saeton, as he admired himself 
with complacency in the large mirror opposite his 
desk. 

Philippe bowed respectfully, and went out. 

The study in which M. Saeton was now occupied 
overlooked a large garden, and back of this were 

7 




8 


SUCH IS LIFE 


the college play-grounds, surrounded by three white 
walls. A simple hedge, lined with ivy, separated 
the Director’s residence from the school. It was 
now the beginning of May, and the brilliant rays 
of the sun played on the trees and turf. It was 
indeed a beautiful spring day! one of those days 
when the human being is happy to be in this 
world, and to feel himself alive. Such, at least, 
was the opinion of M. Saeton, a man still young, 
and very much satisfied with his little person. He 
was forty years old, neither fair nor dark, neither 
thin nor stout, neither handsome nor homely, and 
a graduate of the Normal High School. Having 
failed in being admitted, he was stranded at three- 
and-twenty in a second-rate lyceum. His old com¬ 
rades had not been deceived in calling him the 
“sly one,” however; for, thanks to his ingratiation 
with influential personages, he soon obtained the 
position of Director at Saint-Maurice College 
(Auteuil, Seine, founded in 1827 by the RR. PP. 
Eudistes), which had become a laical establish¬ 
ment since thirty years. 

“You sent for me, Monsieur?” said a young man 
with a grave and sad voice, who had just entered 
the study. 

“Ah! it is you, Monsieur Salbert? The devil! 
You should not come upon people so unceremoni¬ 
ously! " 

“I knocked, Monsieur; but hearing no answer, I 
took the liberty—” 


SAINT-MAURICE COLLEGE 


9 


"You were wrong; but let it pass. Had you 
never committed a more serious fault than that 
one—” 

The new-comer turned pale. He was a handsome 
fellow of twenty-five, elegant and slender, of 
medium height, and well proportioned. He might 
have been taken for a dark Lucius Verus. His 
dark hair waved gracefully over a wide, intellectual 
forehead, and the sad, energetic blue eyes looked 
straight at the speaker. His dark complexion gave 
a suspicion of Creole origin, but in truth he in¬ 
herited it from his grandmother, who was a Mar¬ 
tinique white woman. He always charmed at once 
by the straightforwardness of his actions and the 
frankness of his manners; and now he remained 
standing before the Director with an air of anxiety, 
as if he felt the intuition of a coming catastrophe. 

"Take a seat, Monsieur,” resumed M. Saeton; "I 
am forced to communicate bad news to you." 

"Ah!" uttered Roland, becoming paler still. 

"You are aware," continued the Director, "that 
the number of our pupils has very much diminished 
of late. The Board of Administration have called a 
meeting; those gentlemen have resolved to exer¬ 
cise the strictest economy in regard to the College. 
I am, therefore, obliged to dismiss several tutors 
—you among others." 

The young man closed his eyes, and a slight 
shiver shook his body from head to foot. 

"It is, of course, useless to add that it pains me 


10 


SUCH IS LIFE 


infinitely—I repeat it, infinitely. But, then, you 
will soon find another position. A licentiate in 
letters, as you are, preparing for admission, and 
belonging to a good family—in fact, a gentleman 
—cannot remain long in want.” 

After these few words, M. Saeton again turned to 
the mirror to admire himself (his favorite pastime), 
and awaited his subordinate’s answer. 

"You are brutal, Monsieur! ” replied Roland Sal- 
bert, in a trembling voice. “Since my arrival in 
Saint-Maurice College I believe I have discharged 
my duties faithfully. You have told me yourself, 
several times, that I was giving satisfaction. I 
have won the affection of my colleagues, and, what 
is more difficult, of my pupils also.” 

He stopped a moment, as if to take breath—the 
words suffocated him; then he resumed: 

“It is now six months since I became your 
master of studies. When I offered my services, I 
possessed no recommendation but my diplomas. 
Without even seeing them, you engaged me, and I 
shall always feel very grateful to you. Pray be 
kind enough to tell me if I have forfeited your ap-* 
probation. ” 

“Not at all; not at all, my dear Monsieur Sal- 
bert. I repeat it: it is only a question of econ¬ 
omy." 

“Then, I beseech you, allow me to plead my 
cause,” urged Roland. 

M. Saeton repressed a gesture of impatience. 


SAINT-MAURICE COLLEGE 


11 


Notwithstanding his ridiculous side, he was not a 
hard-hearted man. 

“I have not a cent of fortune,” added the young 
man. “Here I earn sixty francs a month, and my 
sister receives thirty at a boarding school in the 
suburbs; for I have a sister, Monsieur! You did 
not know it, or if you had you would, perhaps, 
have defended me before my judges. I support her; 
she is but twenty, and beautiful, and she has no 
future but what I can provide for her! A beautiful 
future!” 

He burst into a bitter laugh—one of those laughs 
that hurt. The Director moved nervously in his 
chair, not daring to look at Roland, and muttered 
some excuses in a quivering voice. 

Certainly, he felt a great deal of sympathy for 
such a singular and interesting position; but, then, 
what could he do? Nothing, unfortunately. The 
Board of Administration was supreme; and when 
it passes a vote—some believed the Director all- 
powerful. What an error! He was but an instru¬ 
ment, a docile instrument. How could it be other¬ 
wise? Thus for fully five minutes this soft and vul¬ 
gar man defended himself in his selfish way. He 
condescended, however, to express a deep regret for 
not knowing that Roland supported his sister—a 
noble example! 

The young man thought he had touched this dry 
heart, and hoping to obtain a respite, he rejoined 
warmly: 


12 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“I wish to be sincere with you to the end, Mon¬ 
sieur. Perhaps when you learn through what fatal¬ 
ity I have come to occupy this modest position, 
you will become my defender. My name is not 
Roland Salbert.” 

“What!” exclaimed M. Saeton, in astonishment, 
looking at the tutor with a curious air. 

“I changed my name after the catastrophe that 
ruined my family occurred. I am the son of M. 
Montfranchet, banker, of Bordeaux.” 

The Director of Saint-Maurice College started 
from his chair with a bewildered look. Then, re¬ 
flecting that impassibility would become his age and 
position better, he threw a rapid glance in the mirror, 
and feeling satisfied with himself, he said, encour¬ 
agingly: 

“Continue, young man; continue.” 

“I see, Monsieur, that you knew my father. Who 
did not, in fact? He made as many envious of his 
fortune as he gained friends by his kindness. If 
many spoke of M. Montfranchet’s millions with 
reason, others, with no less justice, praised his 
inexhaustible generosity. I admit that I am proud 
of the reputation he has left after him. You know 
how the failure of two English houses, followed by 
a crisis of the metal market overwhelmed that 
powerful banking-house in a few months. My father, 
seeing himself ruined, blew out his brains in a 
moment of despair, believing that bankruptcy would 
dishonor him. Poor man! He forgot that the world 


SAINT-MAURICE COLLEGE 


13 


smiles at shame embroidered with gold, but that 
it never forgives virtue draped in misery. My sister 
and myself were the only heirs, and by sacrificing 
everything we possessed, we had the happiness of 
satisfying all the creditors. We reached Paris with 
scarcely a few hundred francs. You know the rest. 
We are now living on ninety francs per month, 
earned by hard work. Alas! what will become of us 
if you deprive me of my position with you? Alone, 
I would not complain. I am young and strong; what 
matters misery or poverty! But when I think of my 
poor Aiice—” 

Roland stopped; tears suffocated him. Ah! he 
cared little for his manly dignity, even in the presence 
of this stupid and ridiculous being! The brother 
alone suffered and felt the burning wound! M. 
Saeton experienced a certain pity—imbeciles have 
such weaknesses. He would have liked to give this 
unfortunate young man a hope, however fugitive; 
but he knew the consequences too well. One cannot 
risk losing the honor of such a high position as 
Director of Saint-Maurice College, to assure the 
bread of a vulgar master of studies. M. Saeton 
contented himself by obeying those whom he pomp¬ 
ously called "the members of the Board of Admin¬ 
istration.” 

Wherefore had the said "Board” voted the 
dismissal of Roland? Through meanness? Oh 
no! It is only imbeciles that commit unnecessary 
mean actions. They simply wished to create a 


14 


SUCH IS LIFE 


vacancy for another. The new pawn possessed many 
influential friends, and Roland not one. Logic 
condemned the latter to the advantage of the former. 
Thus goes the world. 



II 


ALICE AND ARISTIDE 

Two attic rooms, quite large, in the fifth story of 
a house in the workingmen’s quarter of the city, 
at the extremity of the Rue Cardinet—such was the 
refuge of Roland and Alice Montfranchet after their 
father’s suicide. It was not, however, the attic 
of a poor devil born in the gutter: one felt that 
the being who existed at this height, so far from 
men and so near the sky, had tasted the sweet lux¬ 
uries of life that wealth alone gives. A simple 
paper 1 , with a gay design, covered the walls; a 
Smyrna rug—a relic of by-gone luxury—relieved 
the coldness of the brown frame; and here and there 
were scattered sumptuous wrecks of their former 
home. Why did they cling to those things so 
obstinately ? It may have been because it was 
difficult to dispose of them; or perhaps they retained 
them as souvenirs of their childhood—so long ago, 
alas! in those days when M. Montfranchet, the 
banker, dazzled the Cours du Chapeau-Rouge and the 
Pav6 des Chartrous by his wealth! What particularly 
struck the visitor on entering was the extreme 
neatness of these rooms and the exquisite arrange¬ 
ments of all the little details. 

15 


16 


SUCH IS LIFE 


On this afternoon Alice was sewing near the open 
window overlooking a garden filled with trees, 
whose thick branches formed a green dome under 
the eyes of the young girl. She had obtained some 
work from a linen merchant of that quarter, and 
as soon as she reached home from the school, every 
day, she seated herself at the sewing-machine, ac¬ 
companying the noise of the wheel by humming a 
gay song; for Alice was always cheerful! She found 
the necessary courage to bear her hard life in her 
inexhaustible good-humor. How often she had dis¬ 
pelled her brother’s melancholy by a witty retort 
or a cheerful remark! Now and then she rested 
from her work and glanced at the bright leaves below; 
it reminded her of her father’s beautiful park at 
Begles, near Bordeaux. How she loved to wander 
through the well-kept paths, over the turf, or in 
that little grove of oaks! A sudden knock at the 
door startled her. 

“Come in, Monsieur Aristide! " she cried, gayly. 

The door opened, and Monsieur Aristide appeared 
—a tall, very tall fellow, slender, with a thin face 
shaded by a blonde, silky beard. He advanced to¬ 
ward the young girl and awkwardly extended his 
hand. 

“You guessed well, Mademoiselle Alice,” he said. 

“Oh how clever! ” she said, bursting into a gay 
laugh. “Since it is six o’clock, of course it must be 
you. Your existence is as well regulated as a school 
miss. At five o’clock you leave your desk at the City 


ALICE AND ARISTIDE 


17 


Hall; you come to see me, and then go home to 
dinner; after that, since we inhabit the same house, 
we three spend the evening together; and there 
is no variation from this programme from New 
Years to Saint-Silvester’s day!” 

She laughed again; while Monsieur Aristide re¬ 
mained standing, embarrassed by his tall figure and 
with the timid air of a lover. 

“Now, don’t disturb me with my work,” she re¬ 
joined. "If you do, I shall make Roland scold you 
when he returns. Just take this' seat beside me, 
and let us talk.” 

This young man and young girl made a charming 
couple indeed. In spite of his tall, thin figure, Aris¬ 
tide was, after all, rather a good-looking fellow, 
for his frank and honest black eyes brightened up 
his face wonderfully, and one felt that this man of 
five and twenty possessed that upright nature which 
misfortune bends without corrupting. 

Aristide Duseigneur, son of the Recorder of the 
court at Meaux, had become an orphan at the age of 
eighteen, and inherited the small fortune of ten 
thousand francs. Through the influence of a college 
friend of his father’s, the Attorney-General at 
Toulouse, he had obtained a position in the City 
Hall in Paris. Outside of his year of military serv¬ 
ice, nothing marked his peaceable and uniform 
life. 

Very assiduous, always ready to accomplish 
any task, he soon gained the esteem of his chief, 

Suck is Life 2 


18 


SUCH IS LIFE 


and at the end of six years he was the recipient of 
a fabulous salary—eighteen hundred francs, besides 
one hundred and fifty francs as bonus at New Year’s. 
A fortune! 

One day, Roland Montfranchet and his sister be¬ 
came his neighbors in the Rue Cardinet. And it 
was from that day only that this peaceable clerk 
knew the joys and happiness of love! 

Who could help adoring this superb creature? 
one of those beauties whom men turn to admire 
on the street, and who make old men regret their 
youth. Jet-black hair with a satiny gloss—so thick 
and heavy that it seemed almost a burden—a glo¬ 
rious crown to a delicate head that recalled strangjely 
the profile of the virgin in that wonderful painting 
of Velasquez, the “Couronnement,” placed in the 
Mus6e at Madrid. The pale face possessed a deli¬ 
cate pearly tint, and the dark gray eyes sparkled 
with youth and life. Not a wrinkle on the pure 
white brow; not a defect in the graceful, supple 
form. A true heroine of a romance, with a flexible 
figure, and pretty hands, with long, tapering fingers: 
a heroine, but a very modern woman also, almost 
without nerves, and an unconquerable good health. 

Aristide stood dumb, devouring her with his eyes, 
while Alice propelled the machine with her pretty 
foot. 

“Is that all you have to say to me? ” she suddenly 
asked, with a mischievous smile. 

“I am admiring you," he replied, smiling also. 


ALICE AND ARISTIDE 


19 


“I know it; and that is what annoys me,” she 
said, gravely. 

"Why?” he asked. 

"Because you are going to speak of your love 
again!” 

The young man blushed like a school-g?rl caught 
in mischief. 

"But if I do not speak of my love for you, what 
happiness will be left me in life?” he pleaded. 

Alice turned and looked at him, and her eyes 
filled with an expression of tenderness. Then, leav¬ 
ing the machine, she came to him, and added softly: 

"We must have an explanation—a decisive ex¬ 
planation. Let us reason coolly. I know that you 
love me, and you are also aware that you are not 
indifferent to me.” 

"Ah! I am so happy!” he exclaimed. 

"Do not speak of your happiness until I have 
done,” she resumed. "Unfortunately, my friend, 
we are both poor—more than poor: we are wretched. 
Your income is a hundred and fifty francs per 
month; mine, thirty. Admitting that one year from 
now I can add four or five louis to this each month 
by music lessons and sewing, it is the most I can 
hope for. Therefore, if we marry, we shall be but 
simple beggars.” 

She burst into a silvery laugh, showing her pretty 
white teeth, so even and regular, that sparkled 
between the rosy lips. 

"That is perfectly just! But, pray consider that 


20 


SUCH IS LIFE 


you will be richer with me than with Roland," he 
urged. 

"The trials we accept when living with a brother 
(and which, moreover, we cannot help!) we do not 
accept when living with a husband. And, then, 
if we should have children? Oh! how I would pity 
them! The poor little beings, born in spite of them¬ 
selves, would be condemned to die of starvation 
through our egotism." 

Poor Aristide’s face betrayed so much grief and 
disappointment that Alice was touched. 

"Are you going to distress yourself over it now?” 
she asked, taking his hand. "You are easily dis¬ 
couraged !" 

"You have permitted me to—to adore you! " he 
stammered. 

"I permit you still; indeed, I command you!" 

"Then, I don’t understand it at all," he said, 
hopelessly. 

"It is nevertheless very simple," she rejoined. 
"I want you to love me, and I want you to have 
the hope of making me your wife some day—but no 
more. What would become of us, were it not for 
illusions and golden dreams? It is our ray of sun¬ 
shine. They who struggle in misery have no other 
consolation than that distant star that shines in the 
horizon and smiles on them like a familiar friend. ” 

But Aristide enjoyed Alice’s poetry very little. 
He shook his head sadly, while the young girl arose 
to prepare dinner. Roland would soon be h6me, 


4LICE AND ARISTIDE 


21 


and it would never do to make him wait, hungry 
and tired, after his day’s work. His usual time was 
half-past six. Saint-Maurice College received day- 
scholars only; and M. Saeton took advantage of 
this by sending the professors and pawns outside 
for their board—at their own cost. These little 
economies were so much gained by MM. les Admin - 
istrateurs —those famous Administrateurs so much 
spoken of, but never seen! 

“You have come at last, Roland! ” cried the 
young girl as her brother entered. “You are a 
whole quarter of an hour late.” 

As he made no reply, she looked at him more 
closely 

“Great heavens! What is the matter? ’ she ex¬ 
claimed. 

Roland was ghastly pale, and sunk back into 
a chair. 

“We must resign ourselves, my poor Alice; we 
are lost!” he muttered, in a tone of anguish." 

“Lost?” she repeated, vaguely. 

“I was dismissed from Saint-Maurice College! 
Until I find another situation, if I do find one, we 
have but your earnings to live on. You must feed 
me. ” 

He hid his face in his trembling hands. The 
young girl, who at first % had been crushed by the 
blow, soon regained her cheerfulness, however. 

“Well, my dear Roland, I will feed you, then,” 
she replied, with a sweet smile. “Each our turn. 


22 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Thirty francs per month is just one franc per day. 
We shall have bread—nothing but bread, though! 
You see, you exaggerated. ” 

The energy and confidence of his sister made 
Roland blush at his own weakness. He arose, 
and taking her in his arms, he murmured ten¬ 
derly: 

“How strong and courageous you are! " 

“What compact did we make?” she said, raising 
her head proudly. “After the calamity which 
crushed us, we swore that everything would be in 
common between us. You promised to work with 
energy; and I promised to be a faithful friend to 
you. Have we the right to complain? Our honor 
is still intact. With a few thousand francs we 
saved the memory of our father. There is not a 
stain on your name, nor on mine! We are wretched 
and poor; well, what then?” 

Aristide Duseigneur had listened until now with¬ 
out a word. Suddenly he walked straight to Roland 
and grasped his hand. 

“My dear friend,” he said in an agitated voice, 
“I beseech you to do me one favor. Give me 
your sister’s hand. I love and respect her as the 
noblest woman in the world.” 

These words seemed so out of place, and were 
so unexpected, that the brother and sister looked at 
each other in stupefaction. The young girl was 
the first to recover from her astonishment, and con¬ 
templated her lover with a sort of vague pity. 


ALICE AND ARISTIDE 


23 


"Heavens! have you suddenly lost your senses?” 
she exclaimed in alarm. 

At the least scolding from Mademoiselle Mont- 
franchet, the sentimental Aristide usually turned 
very red or very pale; but he obeyed with as much 
gentleness and docility as a poodle. 

“I am neither insane nor absurd, mademoiselle,” 
he replied, in a firm tone. J ‘I did not refute your 
arguments awhile ago, because I knew I could con¬ 
vince you some day or other. Now the situation 
is changed. As long as your brother and yourself 
had enough to live on, I could not interfere in your 
personal affairs—" 

“And do you believe yourself authorized to do so 
now?” she asked coldly. 

But Aristide Duseigneur had thrown timidity to 
the winds. Having once asserted himself, he was 
not to be crushed so unceremoniously. 

“My dear Roland,” he continued, turning to the 
brother, “before your arrival I asked your sister for 
the honor of her hand. She refused because we are 
both poor.” 

“That is true,” interjected Roland. 

“It is false! ” he cried. “Do you not understand 
that I must acquire the right of caring for you 
both, of watching over you, of helping you! Can 
you bear misery, my poor friends? You are like two 
birds fallen from the nest into a snow-bank. I, on 
the contrary, know what suffering is! I was never 
rich like you; I never lived in luxury as you did. 


24 


SUCH IS LIFE 


You need a friend and support in your present 
trials. Let me be that. But to be strong, I must 
speak in your name, with an authority which cannot 
be refuted. As a simple friend, I am powerless; 
but I can do everything as husband and brother.” 

He expressed himself with so much emotion that 
tears came to Roland’s eyes, and Alice turned her 
face away to hide her agitation. 

"Never mind; we will resume the subject later,” 
she said. "For the present, it would be much 
wiser to dine; as for me, I am about starved." 

Aristide felt a thrill of delight; she did not say 
"No” at once! 

"What have you for dinner this evening, Aristide?” 
added Alice. 

She no longer called him "Monsieur! ” Joy suffo¬ 
cated him. 

"Veal and pickles, mademoiselle,” he stammered. 

Veal and pickles made such droll contrast to a 
solemn proposal of marriage, that Alice and Aris¬ 
tide laughed as children and poets alone can laugh. 
Even Roland felt his melancholy dissipated by the 
hilarity of his sister and of his friend. 

"Bring your provisions, ” she laughed gayly; "and 
I even authorize you to add two bottles of cider. 
We have beef and cheese. What riches! ” 

"Then, you invite me?” 

"Yes! this evening we will have a—family din¬ 
ner! ” 


Ill 


BANKRUPTCY AND SUICIDE 

In the days of his wealth and splendor, Banker 
Montfranchet had often remarked, with a satisfied 
air, that he had given his children a very solid 
education. 

“Who can foresee the future?" he would add.' 
‘‘We live in a troubled epoch, in which the mor¬ 
row is never assured. I want my son and daughter 
to be able to earn their living." 

Roland entered college at an early age, and was 
given all the advantages necessary to complete a 
perfect education. At sixteen, having already ob¬ 
tained his diploma and the degree of Bachelor of 
Arts—just at the age permitted by the University 
rules—he ardently pursued the study of science. 
The double examination passed, the young man 
had certainly earned the right to amuse himself 
and lead a gay life. His father’s wealth, the com¬ 
panions that surrounded him, were all so many 
seductions which he resisted—not without a strug¬ 
gle, however. It was by continuing his studies thus 
that this young millionaire became a “Licentiate 
in Letters." He then prepared himself for military 
service, but was rejected by the medical examiner. 

25 


26 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Nothing serious; the Major of the regiment was 
merely anxious about a nervous trouble in the 
region of the heart, he was told. This studious 
life, however, did not prevent Roland from going 
out into the world now and then. Bordeaux is a 
city of pleasures; probably the city in which we 
eat best and find the most amusements in the whole 
of France. The Bordelaise is nearly always pretty, 
good-humored, and not timid. Roland soon estab¬ 
lished himself in the good graces of a few of these 
fine creatures, for he was a handsome fellow, an ele¬ 
gant cavalier, a skillful fencer, and he easily ob¬ 
tained those agreeable successes that flatter our 
vanity. 

M. Montfranchet intended that his son should 
succeed him as the head of the banking house. 
Where could a more accomplished being be found? 
Roland possessed a rare gift. He was a born 
linguist. He had learned English, German, and 
Italian without any difficulty. At the time of his 
father’s failure and death, the young man was about 
to undertake the study of the Slavonic tongues. 

Alice, who was as intelligent and talented as her 
brother, followed his example. Leo Delibes, who 
had stopped in Bordeaux for a representation of 
Lakmi had been amazed at her wonderful musical 
gift. 

“It is odd," he said; ‘it is not at all the talent 
of an amateur. Certainly, I have known excel¬ 
lent musicians among society women; but one 


BANKRUPTCY AND SUICIDE 


27 


always feels a lack of method in them. Mademoi¬ 
selle Montfranchet possesses a superb voice. After 
one year of Conservatory, she could make her d£but 
at the Opera.” 

As the composer wished to obtain the key to the 
mystery, the banker’s famous phrase was repeated 
to him—‘‘I want my son and daughter to be able to 
earn their living.” But before becoming an artist, 
one must be a laborer in the art. At the age of 
six, Alice took her first lesson in music; at eight 
years she commenced her vocal studies 

Thus the brother and sister walked side by side, 
achieving together the most complete and varied 
studies. At twenty the young girl was an accom¬ 
plished woman. In all the departments of the 
Gironde she was praised and pointed out as a 
wonder. A few little bourgeoises , when questioned 
about the curiosities of the city, even said: "We 
also have Mademoiselle Montfranchet, who is the 
most beautiful, the most accomplished, and the best- 
dowered girl in the country!" She naturally had 
many admirers; the young officer, as well the son 
of noble families, dreamed of her in secret. But 
her father was in no hurry to part with her 

"Girls marry too young,” he would say; "their 
health suffers, and their beauty soon fades away in 
consequence. Moreover, I want Alice to choose for 
herself, and I accept beforehand the one she will 
designate. ” 

On her part, she was in no haste to acquire a 


28 


SUCH IS LIFE 


master, finding herself only too happy in the large 
family mansion, with her father and brother to pet 
and spoil her. Roland and Alice had never known 
their mother, as she had died in giving her little 
daughter birth. Roland, who was then three years 
old, soon felt a great affection for his little sister, 
and when he reached the age of fifteen, and Alice 
twelve, they became inseparable. When we are 
linked together by a close communion of thought 
and existence, our affections become deeper and 
more tender. 

Life for these two beings glided by—tranquil, 
smiling, and bright. When Roland was twenty-four 
and Alice twenty-one, nothing had yet troubled their 
happy life; fate had been very kind to them, since 
the present was so calm and free from anxiety, 
and the future seemed so assured. 

Suddenly, without warning, the catastrophe 
came. What a rude awakening, after so many days 
of sunshine! But M. Montfranchet’s children were 
united and strong in the midst of the frightful storm. 
Not an instant did they hesitate or recoil from their 
duty. When they had paid to the last cent, satisfied 
all the creditors, and liquidated the affairs of the 
bank entirely, they prepared to fight the battle 
of life. Their father had killed himself; the 
honor of their name survived, at least. They re¬ 
mained orphans; their affection gave them strength 
to engage in the painful struggle before them. A 
few friends offered their services, but in such a 


BANKRUPTCY AND SUICIDE 


29 


timid and reserved manner that the young people 
disdained to accept them. Moreover, Roland and 
Alice agreed on one point—they must leave Bor¬ 
deaux. They could not expose their poverty where 
their former wealth and luxury had created envy. 
Besides, it was but a passing cloud, and the storm 
would soon disappear. It is so easy to earn one’s 
living! Did not Roland possess all his diplomas, 
and four living languages? And was not Alice an 
incomparable musician? 

They would go to Paris; and there, unknown 
and lost in the throng, they would soon recover a 
sufficiency at least, if not fortune. The illusion 
did not last long. After three weeks of useless 
search, Alice finally obtained a few pupils from a 
suburban school, and Roland became a teacher in 
Saint-Maurice College. It was a rude shock, after 
so many beautiful dreams! But discouragements 
could not crush those proud and independent 
natures. After all, material existence was assured. 
No obstacle obstructed the future—and the future 
was everything! Hope sustained them in the stub¬ 
born struggle. Some day Alice would enter the 
Conservatory, and obtain a first prize, no doubt. 
This first prize would assuredly procure an engage¬ 
ment at 1’Opera Comique, or at the Opera. As to 
Roland, his path was clearly traced before him. 
He would prepare for his admission and his doc¬ 
torate at the same time. Then they would ask 
their former friends for their influence; they would 


30 


SUCH IS LIFE 


grant it all the more readily because they were 
not called upon before the decisive trial. Thus 
the brother and sister resigned and consoled them¬ 
selves. Their present position permitted them to 
wait; they could wait eighteen months, even two 
years, perhaps. And two years meant assured exist¬ 
ence, maintained dignity, promised prosperity. 

Prosperity? Much more: it meant fortune. Once 
engaged at the Opera, Alice would achieve a great 
success. What triumph! It was not that she was 
vain and proud; but she felt her own strength; 
she was burning with artistic fire. On his side, 
having received his degree of Doctor of Science, 
Roland would, of course, receive an appointment 
as professor in a provincial university. Her engage¬ 
ments would soon enrich her, and he would receive 
from nine to twelve thousand francs per annum. A 
positive calculation! A celebrated singer soon com¬ 
mands millions, and a professor in a university who 
becomes noted for his works and discourses soon 
attains a Sorbonne Professorship. Ah! it was the 
old story of Perrette and the milk-pitcher! Why 
should not these two beings, handsome and accom¬ 
plished, young and charming, realize the dreams 
that lulled their misery? 

And stern reality had suddenly broken the soaring 
wings of these dreams! Since their arrival in 
Paris, Alice and Roland had lived a life of bitterness, 
of daily pain and suffering; but, then, they existed. 
Moreover, they possessed an affectionate and faith- 


v 


BANKRUPTCY AND SUICIDE 


31 


ful friend; for Aristide Duseigneur was the confi¬ 
dant of their hopes, and the comfort of their sor¬ 
rows. 

The loss of Roland’s position crushed all their 
beautiful projects. Ninety francs per month was 
three francs per day. What abundance! These 
young people, who had hitherto scattered money at 
their will, were now reduced to a strict calculation 
of daily expenses. The rental of the two attic 
rooms came to two hundred francs a year. This 
was so much, indeed, that Alice, who kept the 
accounts, often reached lamentable figures. 

“Having an income of three francs per day, hew 
employ it to the most advantage?” was the impor¬ 
tant question. And this was the result obtained: 
“Rent, 0.60; food, 1.50; laundry, 0.50; total, 2.60.” 
Remainder, eight sous for light and fuel. It was 
true that in the spring and summer they could econ¬ 
omize on both, and make up for fall and winter. 
As to clothing, shoes, etc., Alice and Roland did 
not trouble themselves. Something is always left 
of former luxuries; the crumbs of the feast, unno¬ 
ticed by the satiated, but which make the happi¬ 
ness of the starved creature. 

What would become of them now? They were 
losing two-thirds of their income at one blow. 
Their sky, already so clouded, was suddenly turning 
darker still. How long must he search for a new 
position? What path would open before him? 

The three friends remained togethei after dinner, 


32 


SUCH IS LIFE 


talking and planning, until eleven o’clock. It was 
decided that Roland would begin his search for 
work immediately. Oh! he would not be difficult 
to please! He would accept anything, provided 
he could care for Alice. 

The attic, plunged in profound obscurity, was 
scarcely cheered by the pale rays of the moon that 
glided through the garden trees. The three friends 
conversed in low tones near the half-closed window, 
for the night was cool. Now and then a deep 
silence reigned, as if each being was absorbed for 
a moment by his own reflections. No allusion 
was made to the marriage dreamed by Aristide; but 
the silence of the lover spoke more eloquently than 
words. Every few minutes he heaved such a deep 
sigh that Alice could not help noticing it. 

“You have eaten too much dinner, my dear friend! ” 
she suddenly remarked. “You are too greedy; the 
next banquet we have, I will not ask you to share 
it with us.” 

The clerk was, however, thinking of all the in¬ 
evitable disappointments and painful experiences 
that Roland would encounter. He was planning a 
charming surprise; he would at least give his un¬ 
fortunate friend one-half day of pleasure and moral 
distraction. 

“Doyou know what time it is?” he asked, sudden¬ 
ly. “Midnight. Fortunately, to-morrow is Sunday, 
and as we three are at liberty, I have a proposition 
to make.” 


BANKRUPTCY AND SUICIDE 


"That Aristide has such an imagination! ” laughed 
Alice. 

"You are aware that I save a few sous each day 
to treat myself—rarely, of course—to some inno¬ 
cent distraction. That little celebration usually 
occurs about once a month. Now, it is twelve 
weeks since I have spent anything from my humble 
treasure. I was letting it accumulate to share it 
with you. I have thirty-five francs saved!” 

"Thirty-five francs?” exclaimed pretty Alice. 
"You must have broken into the City Hall safe.” 

"I did not dare admit it. But since I have com¬ 
mitted the crime, let us take advantage of it,” he 
added. "Here is the programme: At ten o’clock 
we leave for Viroflay; there we breakfast; then 
comes a long promenade in the woods of Louve- 
ciennes and Marly; we dine in a public-house at 
Rocquencourt, at the very gate of Versailles. 
Finally, we return to Paris, after enjoying a whole 
day of pure air and sunshine. And I promise you 
a good night’s sleep after it! ” 

Alice guessed the truth. The good fellow’s only 
thought was to cheer Roland. She was moved by 
his delicacy, and, under cover of the darkness, she 
placed her hand in his. She was thinking softly: 
"How he loves me! I should be very happy if I 
could make him happy. There are moments when 
I feel more contented than in those days when I 
was rich. ” 

Sue/: is Ufe J 




IV 

THE BETROTHAL 

That Sunday, Aristide Duseigneur was in a 
dazzling humor. In fact, he was caressing a plan 
that had germed mysteriously in his mind. Find¬ 
ing himself master of his father’s small fortune, 
he had been careful to save all he could of the ten 
thousand francs which he inherited. His first de¬ 
duction was the sum of seventy-five louis for the 
year of military service; then, his installation in 
Paris, and his clothes, reduced his capital to six 
thousand francs. This he invested in government 
bonds, resolving to never diminish this small 
revenue of two hundred and thirty francs. On the 
contrary, as soon as he accumulated the eleven 
and a half louis of the coupon, he bought new 
bonds. The ant is patient and ingenious! At the 
time Roland left Saint-Maurice, those methodical 
economies amounted to about sixteen hundred 
francs. Now, on their way from Paris to Saint- 
Germain, a judicious idea had suddenly come to 
Aristide; but he carefully kept his precious secret 
to himself. 

Thence came his exuberance on this spring after¬ 
noon. Providence pities poor people now and 

34 


THE BETROTHAL 


35 


then, and bestows the gift of a beautiful day, 
bright with sunlight. Intoxicated by the blue sky, 
and by the soft, caressing breeze, Alice shared the 
gayety and enthusiasm of her friend. They would 
have been perfectly happy, but they were oppressed 
by Roland’s pensive and melancholy mood. Little 
by little, however, the joyous peals of laughter 
that came from Alice and Aristide began to have 
their effect and dispelled his sadness. Our spirits 
are so elastic at twenty-five! 

Soon he abandoned his gloomy thoughts, forget 
ting his anxieties and sharing his companions’ 
pleasures. While Mademoiselle Montfranchet and 
her fiance walked side by side, talking low, Roland 
ran through the woods like a runaway collegian. 
Then, tired and refreshed by this healthful exercise, 
he stretched himself under the shady trees and 
rolled on the moss and grass like a child. 

About six o’clock they took the road to Rocquen- 
court. The way from Versailles to Saint-Germain 
is anything but attractive, being very dusty in fine 
weather, and damp in gloomy weather. The road 
is paved with rough, irregular stone, and does not 
usually tempt the Parisian visitor; but to those for 
whom life is full of sadness, these little inconven¬ 
iences do not exist. When we are unhappy, we 
easily inure ourselves to half-glimpses of happi¬ 
ness. In speaking of nails of gold planted few and 
far between, Bossuet was thinking of the rich and 
powerful of this world. The abandoned are not so 


30 


SUCH IS LIFE 


difficult to please! The first complain because they 
have but a handful of these rare and precious nails 
of gold; alas! three or four suffice to content the 
second. 

When they reached Rocquencourt, Aristide and 
his friends had their meal spread under a pretty 
grove, where they remained a long time afterward, 
conversing as they had done the previous evening, 
under the tranquil light of the stars. 

“Now, let us speak of our affairs," said Aristide 
“You intend to begin your search for work to-mor¬ 
row, Roland, do you?” 

“Yes, to-morrow. I cannot explain why, but I 
am as full of hope this evening as I was crushed 
by discouragement yesterday.” 

“That is a good sign, a good sign,” cried Aris¬ 
tide. 

“Why should you feel discouraged?” added Alice. 
“With all your troubles, it is impossible that you 
should remain idle. Ihere is not a banking-house, 
a broker, or a business man of any kind, that is not 
in need of a clerk who speaks four modern languages. 
Besides, you might go into a large magasin dd nou- 
vcautes , where you would earn at least three or four 
times as much as you did from that dreadful soup 
merchant, M. Saeton, and with much less brain- 
work, too!” 

“Mademoiselle Alice is right, perfectly right," in¬ 
terrupted Aristide. 

“You might suppress the ‘Mademoiselle,’ since 


THE BETROTHAL 


31 

I call you Aristide simply,” she retorted, looking 
at him with a charming smile. 

“What?” he exclaimed, blushing furiously, “you 
authorize me to—you permit me to—” 

Alice burst into a merry laugh. 

“Why, certainly I authorize you to—and I permit 
you to! ” 

“How kind you are, Mademoiselle—” 

“Mademoiselle, again?” 

Tears glistened in his eyes as he took her ex¬ 
tended hand and kissed it respectfully. 

“Thank you, Alice,” he said simply, in a trembling 
voice. 

Roland, who was looking at them, shared the emo¬ 
tion of his pretty sister; but he was troubled also. 

“My dear friends,” he said, “to-morrow I recom¬ 
mence the struggle for existence; I know it will be 
long and hard. Permit me, at least, to be tranquil 
on one point. You love each other. You, my dear 
Alice, hesitate to marry Aristide because you are 
both poor. But misery shared with the being we 
love is misery no longer. To-day, May 31, you 
are but fiances; swear that in one year you will be 
husband and wife.” 

Alice blushed. Ah! she asked for nothing better 
than to obey her brother! But in her heart she ad¬ 
mitted that it would be more prudent to await more 
fortunate days. Aristide guessed her thought, and 
in an impulse of passionate love, he cried: 

“I beseech you, do not reply by another refusal. 


38 


SUCH IS LIFE 


One year! My God! so many things may happen in 
one year! " 

“But you are richer than I am, my dear Aristide. 
You are the dupe! ” 

“What folly! My future is limited; yours is 
boundless. I shall never be more than a poor 
clerk, while you will become a great artist." 

“Oh, a great artist!" she exclaimed. 

Finally, after much urging and resisting, she 
yielded, and stammered the promise exacted by 
her brother. Was it truly a great sacrifice? The 
affection she felt toward Aristide certainly resem¬ 
bled but little what is called “love” in novels. She 
would never have thrown herself into the sea for 
her lover, nor braved the scaffold or funeral pyre for 
his sake; but she felt a high esteem and a tender 
affection for him. Besides, Aristide’s kindness 
touched her deeply; and kindness is the surest 
means of conquering a woman’s heart. We cannot 
exact beauty and intelligence from the human 
being; but we may, at least, demand kindness. 

They started homeward in a very happy mood. 
Aristide, however, seemed nervous; but this did not 
surprise Alice and Roland, who thought their friend 
was only experiencing the reaction of his emotion. 
Nevertheless, had they observed him more atten¬ 
tively, they might have remarked some very odd 
symptoms indeed. When they reentered Paris, he 
invented a dozen pretexts to delay the return to 
Rue Cardinet. Alleging the beauty of the night, 


THE BETROTHAL 


39 


he stopped at every bench on the Boulevard Male- 
sherbes and the Avenue de Villiers, extolling the 
benefits of breathing the pure evening air. A light 
breeze glided among the trees that skirted the road, 
and made the leaves shiver sadly. The promenaders 
came and went; the lights from the dwellings were 
extinguished one by one, and the sharp cry of the 
locomotives died away in the distant shadows of 
the night. It was now very late, and Aristide could 
no longer delay their return home. Cheered by 
this whole day of pleasures, Roland ascended the 
five flights of stairs leading to their attic, with a 
bounding step. 

“What! a letter?” he cried, as he saw a wmte 
paper slipped under the door. 

“Good-night, my dear friends; I hope you will 
have a good night’s rest.' I am going to bed,” 
called out Aristide, gayly, as if he had heard 
nothing. 

“Are you not coming in with us?” 

“Mademoiselle Alice must be very tired; she must 
retire at once.” 

And before they could say another word, he had 
disappeared and locked himself into his room. 

This unexpected letter puzzled Roland greatly. 
The carrier had seldom stopped at their door since 
their arrival in Paris! Who could have written? 
M. Saeton, perhaps. His heart began to beat fast; 
if by chance it were a summons to return to college. 

“Let me read it,” said Alice, as she took it from 


40 


SUCH IS LIFE 


his trembling hand. She hastily tore the envelope, 
and in a clear voice read the following: 

“Monsieur: About ten years ago, when but a 
poor clerk in a broker’s office at Bordeaux, I was 
in great need. In one of those days of profound 
distress, one of those hours when we dream of 
suicide, I conceived the idea of addressing myself 
to M. Montfranchet. I need not extol the evei- 
wakeful charity of that kind man who is no more. 
Without knowing who I was, he loaned me fifteen 
hundred francs. And I was saved! To-day M. Mont¬ 
franchet is dead, and his children are in want; but 
my gratitude still survives. To-morrow you will 
receive the small sum given me by your father in 
happier days.” 

And while Alice and Roland looked at each other 
in amazement, Aristide Duseigneur, in the silence 
of his chamber, wept tears of joy. He had found a 
good investment for his savings. 


V 


DISCOURAGEMENT 

Early the following day, Roland began his search 
for work. He called on brokers and bankers, pre¬ 
senting himself everywhere under the name of M. 
Salbert. But the same answer greeted him every¬ 
where. Each gave a different reason; but the result 
remained the same. Some pleaded that summer 
was a dull season for their business, and it was 
therefore impossible to engage a new clerk; others 
were thinking of diminishing their staff of em¬ 
ployes. All were, however, amazed at the high 
qualifications of the candidate. Business men are 
not usually impressed by university degrees; but a 
well-dressed man, of elegant manners, who speaks 
and writes four languages, stands high in their 
estimation. 

The struggle for existence has become formida¬ 
ble. Education has penetrated everywhere; like 
the bright rays of electric light, it illuminates the 
most distant villages. Each year the universities 
and religious colleges throw on the world an army 
of young men and young women, supplied with 
useless diplomas. One in a thousand obtains a 
situation worthy of the instruction received. 

41 


42 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Whither do the rest drift? In all directions. A 
professor of the Academic de Paris has proved that 
many women who have passed superior examina¬ 
tions as teachers have been forced to earn their 
livelihood as chamber-maids. 

But men! men! At what door can they knock 
when starvation pursues them? The lyceums, col¬ 
leges, and schools are encumbered by professors 
and tutors. For one vacancy there are a hundred 
applicants awaiting in anxiety and suffering. The 
broker barely makes his expenses; the small shop¬ 
keepers struggle painfully against the great mer¬ 
chants, who in this free century crush them by their 
powerful feudality. 

During eight months—from June to January— 
Roland tramped through the streets of Paris in vain. 
He bore all the rebuffs, he submitted to all the in¬ 
sults and humiliations, and returned home at night 
worn out, body and soul, after ascending two hun¬ 
dred flights of stairs, and spending ten hours in 
useless search. Some answered by an immediate 
refusal, while others would say: “Call again in a 
week; we will then have something to offer you." 
Sometimes he met an intelligent being, who was 
astonished that a man so well gifted should be re¬ 
duced to walk the streets in search of employment. 

“You cannot make me believe that a man like 
you, who is a licencie es lettres , who speaks English, 
German, and Italian, is unable to find work," he 
would say. 


DISCOURAGEMENT 


43 


“You see, however, Monsieur, that even you, who 
speak thus, dismiss me like the rest,” Roland 
would reply, sadly. 

“Oh! with me it is different!” 

And the affected stranger always pleaded an ex¬ 
cellent excuse. He was losing money, or not mak¬ 
ing enough, or there were no vacancies. For those 
wanting a workman, a savant like Roland would not 
suit; and when a writing-clerk was needed, he 
lacked the only quality that was necessary; in fact, 
by strange fatality, this accomplished young man 
wrote an almost illegible hand. He was, however, 
offered work by a dramatic copying-house in the 
Rue Hippolyte-Lebas. But the manager demanded 
a special calligraphy—a round hand—nothing but 
round. It was merely a habit, soon acquired—a 
knack; that was all. One could achieve the most 
wonderful results by one week’s practice; and then 
it was a very easy way of earning a living. The 
price paid for a page of theatrical manuscript was 
from six to eight centimes; a page of a novel, three 
sous; and the price was double for legal roles. 

Roland had a gleam of hope. For a week he 
never left his attic room; from morning till night he 
executed calligraphic exercises. Alas! his cramped 
fingers were rebellious! But he would not be dis¬ 
couraged after one week’s trial only, and he recom¬ 
menced the obstinate struggle against nature. 
Nevertheless, after a half-month spent in useless 
efforts, he was forced to admit himself vanquished. 


44 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“Don’t distress yourself over it,” said Alice, 
cheerfully. “You will end by finding something to 
do. The present is assured, for we have still seven 
hundred francs. And besides, I am earning a louis 
more than I did a year ago." 

Roland then tried to obtain a position at the 
Louvre, the Bon-Marche, or in other similar es¬ 
tablishments. But these enormous houses are filled 
with clerks who have formed themselves into a close 
association. It is therefore impossible to gain 
admittance there, unless one first accepts the rough¬ 
est of the work. The manager has, of course, the 
right to engage whom he pleases; but Roland never 
obtained the honor of being received by one of those 
pashas who are at the head of commercial houses 
of the day. Besides, there, as everywhere else, one 
must serve an apprenticeship; that is, begin in a 
small retail shop, where he must vegetate for a year 
and a half or two years without any remuneration. 

The young man thought he would now try journal¬ 
ism. Ah! poor, unfortunate fellow! He knew little 
of that odd world in which the stranger and unknown 
is considered an enemy—an enemy who seeks to 
take the bread from the mouth of others. A large 
morning paper asked him to write an article. He 
wrote it, and delivered it at the office, hoping for 
an answer, but it never came. He wrote a second, 
a third, and even a fourth, but still in vain. One 
afternoon, as he was lounging in the lobby of a 
newspaper office, waiting till the manager deigned 


DISCOURAGEMENT 


45 


to receive him, Roland was accosted by a stranger. 
He was a big fellow, with a colossal figure, a red 
face, and a sharp eye. 

"Are you waiting for Levrault?" he asked, abruptly. 
"If you think he is going to lose his time to see 
you, you are mistaken! Now, I have business with 
him, and he makes me wait like the rest. What do 
you want? A chronique?" 

"Anything I can get. A chance to write articles, 
or a place as reporter. My only ambition is to 
make a living!” 

"Ah! you are reduced to that! Well, come to see 
me to-morrow—No. 7, Rue des Jeuneurs. My name 
is M. Giroux.” 

Who this M. Giroux was, Roland had not the 
faintest idea. That evening he related his advent¬ 
ure to his sister, who was still faithfully courted 
by Aristide. 

"Why, that M. Giroux must be Providence in 
disguise! ” cried the young girl, clapping her hands 
joyously. "You will see ii he does not become 
the author of our fortune. You must not fail to 
call upon him.” 

After so many disappointments, Roland now was 
almost without hope. As for Aristide, he was in¬ 
variably of Alice’s opinion. His passion had but 
increased since the last spring; and for him the 
world began and ended with Mademoiselle Mont- 
franchet. Every morning he crossed from the cal¬ 
endar one of the days that separated him from the 


46 


SUCH IS LIFE 


date fixed for the wedding. How slow the 31st 
of May was in coming! Four months—it is 
very long when we are waiting, and very short when 
we are happy ! Not only did he share Alice’s opinion, 
but he tried to prove that she fell short of the truth. 
Bad luck does not last forever; a time comes when 
it must change. No doubt, it was cruel to spend 
eight months in useless efforts; but this was only 
one more reason why the last one should be suc¬ 
cessful. 

Then all three tried to guess who this M. Giroux 
might be. As Aristide and Alice were both anxious 
to cheer Roland, who was becoming more and more 
gloomy every day, they now gave free scope to 
their imagination, at once discovering in this 
unknown man the most improbable quali¬ 
ties. 

Roland, however, shook his head sadly, knowing 
well that a man living in the Rue des Jeuneurs 
could neither be a millionaire nor a magician. 

The appointed hour on the following day found 
him at the place of rendezvous. No. 7 was an ill- 
constructed and clumsy-looking gray building, hav¬ 
ing a large yard filled with muddy drays, heavy 
bales of goods, and lots of paper piled one on top of 
the other. On the gate, in large gilt letters, was 
the single word, “Publicity.” The phantasmagorial 
personage dreamed of by pretty Alice was only an 
advertising agent. 

"Ah! it is you, young man,” said he, as Roland 


DISCOURAGEMENT 


47 


entered. “What is your name? where do you come 
from? where have you worked?” 

In a few words Roland related the little history 
he had prepared. 

“The devil!” muttered M. Giroux. “You are a 
professor, and a professor with a diploma at that! 
It will be of very little use for the work I shall 
require of you.” 

“I speak several languages,” ventured the young 
man, timidly. 

“Do you write a good hand?” 

“Alas! no.” 

“So much the worse. But, then, I don’t want to 
see you in distress. You will come here every morn¬ 
ing and address envelopes and tags. In exchange 
I will give you your breakfast and twenty-five sous 
a day. I am sorry I cannot do more for you, but it 
is not my fault. It is so hard to make a living 
nowadays!” 

Roland really felt very grateful to M. Giroux. 
The poor fellow was not accustomed to so much 
consideration. 

“I am very thankful to you, Monsieur,” he said. 
“You are paying me more than I hoped for. At 
Saint-Maurice College I received sixty francs a 
month, and with you I shall only get forty-five, 
but—" 

“You will be at liberty at four o’clock every day; 
that will give you time to look for a position 
worthy of you.” 


48 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Next day, Roland courageously began his work 
as bandiste—such is the name given to the poor, 
unfortunate beings who do this abominable work. 
During three weeks he worked with examplary as¬ 
siduity. He endeavored to write legibly, and with 
much difficulty he succeeded in addressing about 
seven hundred envelopes a day. He arrived at the 
office early, stopped five minutes at noon for break¬ 
fast, and immediately resumed his work, never 
stopping for a second until the hour fixed by M. 
Giroux. But notwithstanding Aristide’s predic¬ 
tions, his ill-luck did not desert him. One morn¬ 
ing M. Giroux failed to make his appearance in the 
Rue des Jeuneurs; neither did he come the next 
day nor the following days. Then suddenly Roland 
learned that he had died of typhoid fever. The 
heirs closed the shop, and he returned to his en¬ 
forced ideness. 

This was too much. An apathetic languor over¬ 
whelmed him. This time all the efforts of Aristide 
and Alice to cheer him were powerless before his 
great discouragement. It was the beginning of 
March; the winter had not been severe; many beau¬ 
tiful sunshiny afternoons had brightened the sad, 
cold days. 

Alice and her fiance were alone awaiting the re¬ 
turn of Roland, who had gone out for half an hour 
after dinner. 

“Ah! my friend,” she said, “what would have be 
come of us without you during those long, cruel 


DISCOURAGEMENT 


49 


months? Your gayety consoles us, and your energy 
sustains us. You were right when you compared 
my brother and myself to two birds fallen from the 
branch into a bank of snow.” 

“What fine merit!" he exclaimed. “Am I not in 
love with you? Are you not an accomplished woman, 
the ideal of my dreams? But, then, it is not our 
future that troubles me. You and I are strong 
enough to brave fate and bear misfortune. My 
anxiety is for Roland." 

“Mine also,” she murmured. 

“He has changed very much of late. Have you 
noticed the nervousness of his gestures, the paleness 
of his cheeks, and the brightness of his eyes?” 

“Alas!” she exclaimed, sadly. 

“You fear that he will be iil? I dread a much 
greater misfortune. Inde.ed, I should hide my 
apprehensions from you; but I fear that my prudence 
might be criminal. Since one year your brother 
has waged a terrible struggle against existence. 
He has failed and been repulsed everywhere. His 
merits have been despised, his dignity humiliated, 
and his talents scorned. I sometimes imagine 
that he is haunted by the idea of suicide—”, 

Alice’s head was bowed down, and she made an 
effort to repress her sobs. 

“I grieve you," he continued. “It is because you 
alone can watch over him. Roland knows, that if 
he disappears, I am here to marry you, to love you.” 

“Hush," she cried; "I hear his step on the stairs.” 

8wh U life 4 


50 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“Where have you been, Roland?” asked the 
young girl, with assumed gayety, as he entered. 

“Where have I been?” he cried violently. “I have 
just lost my last hops. Disheartened by my ill-luck, 
I wanted to renounce everything and enter the 
army; then I remembered that when I became of 
age I was refused by the Major of the regiment. I 
consulted the principal physician in the army at 
Paris, telling him I desired to become a soldier; 
and he has made me the same answer as his col¬ 
league at Bordeaux—nervous troubles in the region 
of the heart. And as I smoke, they have become so 
aggravated that I now suffer attacks of heart disease. 
So I am not even able to earn one sou a day, like 
the first-come good-for-nothing! I have reached the 
limit of my strength and will! I have but one re¬ 
source left me: it is to throw myself into the Seine, 
with a stone around my neck, some dark night. 
Alice does not need me, since she has you, Aristide, 
and in a few weeks you shall be married!” 

The two lovers exchanged a glance. 

“Ah! my poor father,” he resumed, “you were 
indeed right to end your existence! In former days, 
when we were rich, and I was studying the ‘Natural 
Selection’ of Darwin, I often shook my head with a 
smile. ‘ A struggle for life .’ What monstrosity! The 
ferocious struggle waged against each other by 
created beings, seemed like an abomination to me. 
Nevertheless, all philosophers, all physiologists 
agree. Darwin, Candolle, Bentham, Charles Richet, 


DISCOURAGEMENT 


51 


all have uttered the same painful lamentation! ‘All 
these children of nature are struggling against each 
other. Thousands of obscure cases of suffering are 
dissimulated under the grass of the prairies or the 
rocks of the shores!’ The passer-by who wends his 
way through a large city hears nothing, because these 
cries of misery, of pain and of anguish, never reach 
his ears!" 

And Roland burst into tears; he could repress 
his grief no longer. His heart was broken; he 
could no longer hide his desolation and despair. 
Alice was dismayed. Until now her inexhaustible 
fund of good humor had sufficed to rekindle hope 
in her brother’s heart, but she now realized that 
words of consolation were useless. 

“And this is what we have come to! ” continued 
Roland, with feverish ardor. “Yes, this is what we 
have come to at the close of the nineteenth century, 
the era of light and liberty! I am twenty-six— 
adapted to everything, and yet good for nothing! 
My brain has been cultivated, all my intellectual 
faculties have been developed; unfortunately that 
brain and intelligence cannot feed me! My muscles, 
on the contrary, have remained in almost their nat¬ 
ural state. A little fencing and gymnastics are all 
the attention they have received. So that I, who 
might be an excellent professor, a distinguished 
engineer, or a renowned writer, cannot even procure 
the daily bread earned by the mechanic or porter.” 

“Roland—” 


52 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“Oh! you are going to speak of the future! you 
are going to sing that eternal song that I hear con¬ 
tinually since we are abandoned by all the 
world? But no; I am weary of it, I will not hear! 
Energy is dead within me, all new efforts are re¬ 
pugnant to me. Better die of starvation than live 
in idleness or like a coward.” 


n»- 



VI 


ROLAND MEETS AN OLD FRIEND 

The next morning, Roland went out early and 
wandered through Parc Monceau, his eyes fixed va¬ 
cantly before him, weary in body and soul. After 
the crisis of the preceding night, Alice and Aristide 
had taken a wise determination. They decided, that 
for the future, they would approve every word and 
every resolution of the young man. Whatever might 
happen, Roland would always be right. The two 
lovers understood his unhappy state of soul. Already 
deeply humiliated by the repeated failures of his 
attempts, he was now undergoing a second humili¬ 
ation more cruel than the first. Since ten months 
he and his sister were living on- a sum of money 
restituted by a stranger. Alice contributed her 
share to their daily expenses. Her work brought 
but little; but then, she worked, while he, who was 
in the full strength of his youth, remained idle. 
As he was leaving the park by the Rue Ruysdael, 
a young man who was lounging on the opposite 
side of the street, turned abruptly. 

"What! Montfranchet! ” he cried. 

Roland raised his eyes, and recognized Ren6 Sal- 
verte, an old schoolmate. He returned the saluta- 

53 


54 


SUCH IS LIFE 


tion, and turned away hastily, hoping to escape from 
his friend; but Rene was already at his side with 
his hands extended. “I am truly delighted to meet 
you," said he, with a frank and kindly smile. “To 
think that we have never met since our college days 
at Bordeaux! We were then inseparable compan¬ 
ions ! Do you remember how often you translated 
my Greek theme or corrected my French composi¬ 
tion? You were the best of comrades; and if life 
is not unjust, you must be happy—among the hap¬ 
piest in the world.” 

They were walking slowly down the Rue de 
Messine. Salverte’s affectionate words touched 
Roland deeply. His heart, parched by long suffer¬ 
ing, had so much need of sympathy and affection! 
At these last words, however, his distress was so 
evident that Rene stopped short. 

“What an idiot I am,” he rejoined, in a grieved 
tone. “I was forgetting the cruel misfortune that 
has come upon you; the violent death of your 
father, and his unexpected ruin. Pray forgive me.” 

“Forgive you? Ah! if you knew what balm your 
kind words are to my wounded heart.” 

“When I heard of the disaster,” resumed Rene, 
“I intended to write to you. But you know how 
negligent we are, especially in Paris. We are 
loath to take up a sheet of letter-paper, through 
indolence, and not indifference. We put it off till 
the morrow; and the next day passes away, and still 
we have not written. A week glides away, then two 


ROLAND MEETS AN OLD FRIEND 


55 


weeks, and we think it is too late. So that a very 
dear friend like you has a right to think he is 
forgotten, when, on the contrary, I have always 
recalled our friendship of other days with pleasure. ” 

A deli«ious emotion invaded Roland’s heart, and 
tears came into his eyes; those beneficent tears 
that relieve the heart and calm the nerves. 

“What is the matter?” exclaimed Rene, in amaze¬ 
ment. 

“You will know by and by. But do not be 
alarmed, for we sometimes weep for joy, and it is 
joy that overcomes me now.” 

“You are as mysterious as the sphinx,” retorted 
the Parisian, laughing. “But never mind, I will 
unearth your secret. I have an idea. It is only 
eleven o’clock, so of course you have not yet 
breakfasted. Let us go to the Cafe Anglais, where 
we can chat at our ease.” 

Rene was careful to secure a private room, for 
notwithstanding his heedlessness, the good fellow 
was not wanting in tact. Roland’s nervousness and 
strange manners caused him a vague uneasiness. 
He knew that his friend would confide his troubles 
to him, and they must be alone, free from inter¬ 
ruption. 

Roland felt his mind relieved, and his brain re¬ 
laxed. Rene’s friendly manner, his gayety, and his 
high spirits comforted this victim of circumstances. 
There is a real physical enjoyment in eating at 
the Cafe Anglais. The dishes seemed exquisite, 


56 


SUCH IS LIFE 


and Roland, who had formerly known all the luxu¬ 
ries of existence, suddenly experienced the bestial 
sensation of a vagabond or a beggar metamorphosed 
into a millionaire by a touch of a magic wand. 
Rene, who observed him curiously, guessed the 
truth, little by little. Roland must be poor, even 
more than poor, though the elegance of his clothes 
and the texture of his linen did not betray any mis¬ 
ery. When the meal was over, Rene offered his 
friend a cigar. 

“What, don’t you smoke any more?” he cried. 
“Ah! nothing but a cigarette, as you did at college. 

I remember now. Well, then, light your cigarette, 
and tell me what you have been doing since your 
father’s death." 

Then Roland began the sad recital. He told how 
his sister and himself paid all the debts of the 
ruined banker, and had been left at the mercy of 
hazard. He spoke without bitterness, but with a 
warm and eloquent ardor. As he revived the memory 
of those atrocious days, and called to mind all the 
tortures he had undergone, his pale cheeks flushed 
hotly. Salverte’s heart was thrilled with sympathy. 
How could a man, with such an education, such 
talent as his friend possessed, have endured so much 
relentless suffering? 

“My poor Roland,” he murmured, “you must have 
thought me very thoughtless and giddy when we 
met. But how could I have suspected the truth? 
How could I imagine that you were in want? you, 


ROLAND MEETS AN OLD FRIEND 


57 


who passed for a savant. You speak German and 
English, I believe.” 

“And also Italian.” 

“That would be a sticker for my father!” he 
laughed—“he who is always repeating, in a doc¬ 
toral tone, ‘The man who speaks two languages is 
worth two men.’” 

“In that case I should be worth four,” said Mont- 
franchet, smiling. 

With his elbows on the table, his gaze lost in 
vacancy, Rene was thinking deeply. 

“Come,” said he, after a short silence; “I will do 
all I can to help you out of trouble.” 

“To save my life, rather: that is more like it,” 
interposed Roland. 

“As you wish. Unfortunately I cannot do a great 
deal. This is the situation: I have quarreled with 
father. You do not know him, do you? No? well, 
he is quite a type! An excellent man, but as un¬ 
bending as justice itself. Now, I have-a fault, we 
might even say a vice. I am a player, an inveter¬ 
ate player. At the age of twenty-one I inherited 
my mother’s fortune, a cool million. My father, 
who is in business, wanted to take me in partner¬ 
ship; but of course I refused. I was a little wild, 
and led a gay life indeed, spending most of my 
time at the clubs. Ah! my dear friend, it did not 
last long, I assure you. My ten packages of a hun¬ 
dred thousand each disappeared as rapidly as the 
flame of a match, at the lamps of all the gambling 


58 


SUCH IS LIFE 


houses of Paris. And the deeper I sunk, the more 
delighted my father seemed. When my last sou 
was gone, he rubbed his hands gleefully, and said: 
‘Pve got you at last, my boy! You have run through 
your money like a fool; now I will force you to 
earn your living. It will teach you how to become 
a man.’ 

Roland could not help laughing. He found Sal- 
verte charming: the gay humor of this dissipated 
young man dispelled his gloomy thoughts. 

“My poor Rene,” he laughed, “you are to be 
pitied. ’ 

“And he has kept his word! ” went on Ren6. “He 
is interested in a lot of enterprises that bring in 
large returns: Director of the Compagnie Mobiliere, 
trustee of the Banque de France, manager of the 
Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-lits—and I 
know not what more ! Well, he has compelled me to 
enter one of his offices. He pays my rent, my tailor, 
my shoe-maker, my haberdasher, in fact all my 
expenses, and leaves me my salary for pocket money. 
Two hundred francs per month! And you under¬ 
stand it is ten louis, and not a sou more. I break¬ 
fast and dine with him. I don’t speak to him very 
often, because we are not good friends; but I kiss 
him, because I love him very much.” 

“I see that you are still the same,” rejoined Ro¬ 
land. “Always the good and kind, obliging fellow 
that I knew in former days." 

“Now I must scold you,” said Ren£. “Our meet- 


ROLAND MEETS AN OLD FRIEND 


59 


ing is due simply to chance. Why did you not 
come to me; I would have helped you long ago.” 

“Because I am too proud, my dear Rene,” replied 
Roland, with a sigh. “I have extended my hand to 
no one. I wanted to conquer misfortune and tri¬ 
umph over fate by my own unaided exertions. 
Nevertheless, believe me, I accept your offers of as¬ 
sistance with real pleasure. We have been together 
scarcely two hours, and I am no longer the same 
being. Your friendship warms me, your gayety en¬ 
livens me, and your kindness comforts me. This 
morning the sky was gloomy; now I feel hope re¬ 
viving within me. Ah! how good you are! It is 
such happiness to hear an affectionate voice and 
look into kindly eyes like yours.” 

He was silent for a moment, overcome by happi¬ 
ness. Rene was also touched by his sincere emotion. 

“Well, then, my dear Roland, I am going to make 
a great sacrifice for your sake. I shall become 
reconciled to my father! He will surely find you 
an agreeable place. And in the meantime—” 

Ren£ drew a purse from his pocket, and added: 

“I have not much, but I can lend you a little all 
the same. This is the second of the month, so I 
must have five or six louis left. If I had met you 
only the day after to-morrow—it would be a different 
story!" 

Roland, who was very proud, would not have ac¬ 
cepted from another; but coming from Ren£, it 
pleased him. 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“That is not all," continued the Parisian: “the 
Mont de Piet£ will give a few hundred francs on 
my ticker and chain, and on this scarf-pin. You 
refuse? What a fool you are! Do you think it is 
the first time?” 

“No, Rene, I do not refuse. I should be guilty 
if I allowed my stupid pride to speak, when you 
show yourself so full of kindness and delicacy.” 

“What a charming fellow you can be! ” 

When they separated, the day was already far 
spent. Roland felt the need of wandering alone, 
and he walked here and there on the boulevard. 
He was happy, oh, so happy! After so many de¬ 
ceptions, so many illusions, this unexpected meeting 
saved him from a mad action. He saw the future 
suddenly opening bright before him, when he had 
lost all hope! Such is chance, nevertheless. During 
his hours of distress the thought of Rene Salverte 
had never come to Roland. And this forgotten 
friend alone held out a helping hand. Montfran- 
chet now recalled the smallest details of their for¬ 
mer intimacy. He saw again the large college 
play-ground at Bordeaux, and the long piazza that 
ran around the building. What an excellent com¬ 
rade this Ren6 was. His gay laugh and bright face 
endeared him to all his companions: he was always 
the first at play, but always the last at study. How 
many times Roland, had relieved this amiable fellow 
of his compositions and exercises! 

He did not return to Rue Cardinet until he was 


ROLAND MEETS ATI OLD FRIEND 


61 


* 

sure of finding Alice at home. The young girl usu¬ 
ally returned about three o’clock from the subur¬ 
ban school. She was astounded when she saw the 
calm and almost smiling face of her brother. 

“You are not the same person you were this 
morning,” she cried, in delight. 

“If you only knew—“ 

And the young man joyously related his romantic 
adventure. He told her of that unexpected meeting 
that would perhaps change their whole existence. 

When Aristide returned from the office, he nat¬ 
urally shared the joys and illusions of his friends. 
As usual, they allowed their fancy to run wild, con¬ 
juring up the most improbable projects. Although 
he knew nothing of the elder Salverte’s character, 
Aristide declared that he would become the savior, 
the unknown God, who would snatch the unhappy 
Roland from the brink of the abyss. These dreams 
and speculations occupied the greater part of the 
evening; and for the first time in many weary 
months Alice and Roland went to sleep with light 
and hopeful hearts. 


MONSIEUR SALVERTE 


Early the next morning a messenger boy brought 
a dispatch from Rene. It ran as follows: 

“Dear Friend: I condescended to speak to my 
father, and praised you highly. He took it pretty 
well, but still I distrust him, for he is a man full 
of mysteries. He merely replied: ‘Tell your friend 
to come and see me.’ Therefore, present yourself 
this afternoon, at five o’clock, at No. 8, Rue 
Murillo. Good luck.” 

M. Paulin Salverte was nearing his sixtieth year. 
Of a tall, robust figure, with square shoulders, he 
was indeed the type of a man who has rudely hewed 
his path in life. His father—a broker in the time 
of Louis Philippe—possessed the art of making 
money and spending very little. During the last 
ten years of the Empire, Paulin Salverte was 
shrewd enough to link himself with the bold and 
rich speculators of that period. His good luck did 
not desert him under the Republic, for his polit¬ 
ical opinions embarrassed him but little. He did 
not hesitate to join' the powerful of the day, pro¬ 
vided they aided him in increasing his capital. 
He was a man who possessed few scruples, and even 

62 


MONSIEUR SALVERTE 


(33 


less dignity. All means seemed good to him. In 
his whole life he had known nothing but success, 
and the poor inspired him with a vague contempt. 
He could not understand or tolerate poverty. Mis¬ 
fortune seemed to him like an implacable divinity 
intrusted with the punishment of hidden crimes. 
The calamities that overtook others were to him 
not strokes of fate, but well-deserved chastise¬ 
ments. It was sufficient to study his countenance 
to guess and understand that strong though ego¬ 
tistic and dry nature. His stern blue eyes were 
sunk under a deep arcade, shaded by thick eye¬ 
brows; and his gray hair seemed glued to his 
temples. The mouth, with its thin, pale lips, 
never opened but to utter clear and cutting words. 
Paulin Salverte loved to express himself by apho¬ 
risms, which he believed very philosophical. As to 
the rest, he scorned absoltuely the intellectual 
movements of his century. Artists he set down as 
bohemians; poets were useless beings; and histo¬ 
rians, mere braggarts. Banking, industry, and 
commerce were the only words he understood and 
tolerated. 

When Roland presented himself, he was bending 
over a large working-table, busily writing. When 
the young man was announced, the banker did net 
even raise his eyes, but merely said, in a careless 
tone: 

"Sit down; in five minutes I will be ready to talk 
to you.” 


64 


SUCH IS LIFE 


This rude welcome shocked Roland, but he had 
decided beforehand to accept everything. The five 
minutes lengthened into a half-hour; and still the 
banker paid no more attention to his son’s friend 
than if he were a dog or some other domestic ani¬ 
mal. When he had at last finished his correspond¬ 
ence, he pressed the button of an electric bell ; 
a clerk appeared, and carried away the letters that 
M. Salverte had just signed. Then he turned 
toward Roland, and said, in a harsh tone: 

“Bring your chair near my desk. Rene has 
spoken of you, and praised your merits to me. But 
you must understand that I did not believe one 
word of what he said. My son is fond of jesting. 
But as, after all, he might by chance be telling the 
truth, I wanted to judge of your talents for myself, 
and if you suit me, I will place you in one of my 
offices. ” 

“Thank you, Monsieur,’’ murmured Roland. 

“Don’t interrupt me. I will question you; con¬ 
tent yourself with answering my questions. How 
old are you?” 

“Twenty-six. ” 

“What are your university degrees?" 

“Licentiate of Letters and Bachelor of Arts," 

“Licentiate of Letters? Of what use is that, I’d 
like to know? Bachelor of Arts is well enough, 
though. I hear that you also speak several lan¬ 
guages: German, English, and Italian, I believe? 
That is more to the purpose, I have a vacancy 


MONSIEUR SALVERTE 


65 


which you can fill to perfection. As Doctor of 
Science you can serve me in nothing; as polyglot, 
however, you can be of some use. I hope at least 
that you are not an amateur?” 

The rude and imperious words of this man vexed 
Roland greatly; but he stifled his pride, knowing 
well that if the banker repulsed him, all was lost. 

“I have never been an amateur, Monsieur," he 
replied coldly; ‘‘I studied English and German 
with great care. I speak those two languages 
fluently enough to. read Shakespeare and Goethe in 
the original." 

M. Salverte shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. 

"Poets! ” he muttered (he pronounced it poate). 
"Too much science! I do not ask so much of you. 
It is sufficient that you may be able to converse 
easily with travelers, and transmit the orders they 
may give you.” 

Travelers! Orders! What did it all mean? 
Roland was at a ioss to understand. 

"Have you heard of the International Sleeping- 
Car Company?" he resumed. "Each train carries a 
conductor-in-chief, a conductor, two stewards, a por¬ 
ter, a cook, and an assistant. The conductor-in¬ 
chief receives a salary of a hundred and twenty 
francs per month—a hundred and fifty when he 
happens to be a man like you. Moreover, the com¬ 
pany furnishes the uniform; that is, a maroon coat 
with eight buttons, and an American cap. That 
strangers may know to whom they should apply, 
Such is Life 5 


66 


SUCH IS LIFE 


you will wear a gold star on the collar. I may add 
that you will have twelve hours of rest between 
each trip. You see that I do things well. Eighteen 
hundred francs a year! That is quite a fortune. 
You are my son’s friend, and I want to be useful 
to you. Your engagement will begin in three 
days. ” 

As the banker went on, Roland felt his anger ris¬ 
ing within him. What! this was what was offered 
him?—a livery! He, however, had strength enough 
to restrain his feelings. When the talons of misery 
are clutching at a man’s throat, he must crush his 
rebellious feelings. A hundred and fifty francs a 
month! More than Roland had ever earned since 
he began his desperate struggle for existence. Did 
M. Salverte guess the hesitations of this unfortu¬ 
nate being? 

“Do you accept?” he asked, roughly. 

“I accept,” replied Roland, simply. 

“Then, write your name and address on this sheet 
of paper; you will be notified in two or three days. 
You may now retire; my work claims my atten¬ 
tion. ” 

Alice was anxiously awaiting her brother’s return, 
wondering what the result of his interview with M. 
Salverte would be. When he came in and she saw 
the paleness of his cheeks and the look of indigna¬ 
tion burning in his eyes, the young girl began to 
fear. Great heavens! was it another disappoint¬ 
ment? And when she heard the truth—when she 


MONSIEUR SALVERTE 


67 

learned the nature of the inferior position Roland 
had accepted, her indignation burst forth. 

“The wretch!” she cried. “And you his son’s 
friend! He offers you, a scholar, a position that any 
common porter could fill ! But you will not fall 
so low. Write to him at once that you refuse. Let 
us wait; search again—” 

“What is the matter?” asked Aristide, coming in. 

The clerk listened to Alice’s account without 
interrupting her. She vehemently reproached M. 
Salverte, the world in general, and the relentless fate 
that pursued them. 

“I agree with you, my dear Alice,” he said; “M. 
Salverte has acted in a despicable manner. He 
could easily have found some other occupation for 
your brother. I believe he was glad to find an op¬ 
portunity of humiliating his son’s school-mate. But 
in our present circumstances, we must beware of 
pride. No human being ever degrades himself 
when he works faithfully at any honest employment. 
It is hard, I admit, to don a livery, when we have 
dreamed of a professorship at Sorbonne; it is hu¬ 
miliating to receive orders from ill-bred travelers, 
when we are perhaps a talented writer. Neverthe¬ 
less, I approve, Roland.” 

“Aristide! ” she exclaimed, reproachfully. 

"Do not be angry, my dear Alice. Not only do I 
approve, but I admire him. Until now your brother 
has only shown courage; to-day he has done more 
in checking the impulses of his vanity. What do 


68 


SUCH IS LIFE 


we require? To gain time. Roland will be free 
from expense, and he can soon save a thousand 
francs. Then we will bid good-bye to M. Salverte, 
and begin our search once more.” 

How could Alice withstand her brother’s deter¬ 
mination, or resist Aristide’s arguments? She was 
forced to yield at last, feeling crushed and con¬ 
quered. 


VIII 


THE CONDUCTOR-IN-CHIEF 

Ah! the terrible reflections that haunted Roland’s 
brain during the long, weary nights of travel! The 
young man left Paris on the Eastern line at 8:40 
p. m. During the day, he slept with clinched fists, 
and left again for Paris in the evening. The new 
conductor-in-chief was polite always, but cold and 
distant to everybody; his instinctive pride happily 
repelled all familiarities. As he slept during the 
day, he was awake all night, and it was the most 
cruel of his sufferings. As the train dashed on at 
full speed, Roland would envelop himself in a 
cloak, and stretch himself on the carpet of the car, 
where he would remain motionless, with open 
eyes, evoking, one by one, all the hours of his past 
life. He would again see himself rich, free, and 
happy, when he and his sister were the envy of the 
world. Who would have dared to predict so sad 
and uncertain a future? 

This is what we are reduced to when forced to 
earn our daily bread; when we have neither money 
nor friends! In life, there is but one conqueror to 
a hundred thousand conquered! Of what use to be 
armed for the struggle? Of what use is a brain 

69 


70 


SUCH IS LIFE 


gorged with ideas? One must either die of starva¬ 
tion or become an outcast. If a man be cast out 
of his natural path through his own fault, it is only 
just. If this outcast is a drunkard, a profligate, or 
a sluggard, he is being justly chastised, and 
should not complain. But when we have nothing to 
reproach ourselves, when we have worked and 
struggled, must we then admit that society is badly 
constituted? Then energy inevitably vanishes, 
the will crumbles, and conscience weakens. Who 
has the right to cry out “I am an honest man”—he 
who has always been happy, or he who has been 
beset by brutal temptation? Temptation! Roland’s 
conscience was undergoing rude assaults. The 
young man was beginning to undervalue duty and 
truth. Must we not separate human from divine 
justice? God has forbidden murder and theft; 
but He has also commanded that men should 
help one another. Can men bear witness against 
God for condemning thieves and criminals when 
they are so eager to kill and destroy each 
other? In battle, everything is permitted to the sol¬ 
dier. He strikes his enemy with a blind and san¬ 
guinary rage. Woe to him if pity withholds his arm, 
and turns from its aim the fatal blow he is about 
to strike! Since life is also a battle, the individ¬ 
ual has the same right as the soldier. Does not 
the stronger perpetually crush the weaker? Do not 
some commit every day, to the detriment of others, 
hundreds of permitted and tolerated thefts? Even 


THE CONDUCTOR-IN-CHIEF 


71 


more: the victorious soldier is celebrated, recom- * 
pensed, and praised enthusiastically; the specula¬ 
tor, bloated with millions, is envied, flattered, and 
admired by the multitude. And, nevertheless, the 
one has killed, the other has stolen. Undoubtedly; 
but the soldier that kills might be killed; the spec¬ 
ulator who ruins others might be ruined himself. 
Do not the vulgar criminals, the common foot-pads, 
run any danger? Do they not risk the guillotine or 
the prison? Therefore divine laws are just and 
eternal, while human laws are only means of defense 
adopted through the egotism of society. 

Hitherto Roland would have fought these rea¬ 
sonings by other arguments. Since society has cre¬ 
ated, piece by piece, a system which protects it, it 
were better not to rebel against it. The individ¬ 
ual is always in the wrong against the multitude. 
Humanity is badly constructed—that is undeniable; 
but since it is impossible to live outside of it, 
we must bear with it. Yes, he who is rich, he who 
is happy, accepts the inconveniences of the system, 
since he profits by the advantages. But why 
should the outcast accept them in spite of himself, 
when they bring him no profit? . During those cruel 
nights of insomnia, tempting ideas filtered slowly 
into the brain of the young man. Should he ever 
have the opportunity of enriching himself, he would 
not be stupid enough to hesitate! In this base 
world, goodness is a decoy, and virtue a mask. The 
honest man struggles in obscurity, and dies in the 


72 


SUCH IS LIFE 


despair of defeat, while his audacious companion 
who walks with head erect, suppresses those that 
inconvenience him, and boldly conquers happiness 
and fortune. 

Since two months, Roland was enduring his hard 
lot; this short time had sufficed to imprint an ex¬ 
pression of harshness to his features. When he 
snatched a few hours from his slumber to run to 
Rue Cardinet, and kiss Alice, he tried to appear 
cheerful; but the young girl saw that he was a prey 
to gloomy thoughts. She did not dare have an ex¬ 
planation with him, and a secret uneasiness tortured 
her heart. She guessed the hidden sufferings of 
which he never complained, and the secret humil¬ 
iations which he accepted without apparent revolt. 
Her brother’s unmerited degradation wounded her as 
deeply as himself. The few words that escaped 
from Roland, terrified her. Hitherto he had ac¬ 
cused fate, but not men. Now, in his impotent 
rage, he attacked the whole world. 

One morning, after his return from Bale, Roland 
reached home more weary and exasperated than 
usual. Alice had started for the school; and find¬ 
ing the rooms deserted, he went to bed and slept 
profoundly. When the young girl returned, about 
three o’clock, she was dumbfounded at his appear¬ 
ance. What a change in those few weeks! In re¬ 
pose a man’s features betray all the anxiety, all 
the assaults on his conscience. The Roland of to¬ 
day no longer resembled the Roland of other days. 


THE CONDUCTOR-IN-CHIEF 


73 


A deep line furrowed the brow which, in happier 
years, conceived only beautiful and noble thoughts; 
a nervous smile puckered the corners of the pale, 
disdainful lips. While Alice still looked at him, 
he awakened with a deep sigh, as if it were painful 
to again find himself alive after those hours of un¬ 
consciousness. 

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, softly. 

“Very well,” he answered, then added: “You look 
sad, my darling.” 

“You are the cause of my sadness,” she said. 

“Bah! I am getting used to my new trade. Be¬ 
sides, hope is reviving within me. One cannot al¬ 
ways have ill-luck. I shall have my turn like the 
rest, and I swear that the day when the occasion 
shall present itself—” 

There was a short silence. Then she answered, 
without turning her eyes: 

“Oh! I have no fear. If that occasion should 
ever present itself, you would only do what you 
should. ” 

“Who knows! ” he replied. “You see those who 
allow themselves to be inconvenienced by conscien¬ 
tious scruples are idiots. To succeed in life, one 
must recoil from nothing. But let us speak of 
something else. You are aware that this is the 
3d of May?” 

Alice blushed; and he resumed with a smile: 

“In twenty-eight days you will be married, Mad¬ 
emoiselle! I have calculated that on the 31st 


74 


SUCH IS LIFE 


I shall be in Paris, and will have a day of lib¬ 
erty. One of us, at least, will taste happiness. I 
must not complain, since you have met a good and 
loyal man like Aristide. He adores you, and will 
make you happy. In my hours of discouragement, 
I console myself with the thought that you love 
and that you are loved. I will never know the di¬ 
vine joys that are promised you—” 

“Why not, my dear brother? You are young—” 

He interrupted her with a burst of laughter—one 
of those nervous laughs‘that betray the bitterness 
of a desolate heart. 

“Yes, it is very likely! I can imagine the nice 
young girl who would fall in love with M. Roland 
Montfranchet, conductor-in-chief on a sleeping-car 
of the International Company. It would be so easy 
to carry her off as I travel every night. Besides, I 
wear a livery; that is another advantage. Do 
not lots of fools fall in love with their domes¬ 
tics? “ 

And he again burst into a bitter laugh that ended 
in a sob. And he wept out the bitterness of his 
heart on Alice’s shoulder. 

“Ah! my darling, my darling,” he cried, “if you 
only knew how unhappy I am! I no longer know 
myself. I am haunted by ideas that terrify me; by 
ideas that would not have come to me a few months 
ago. Save me from these temptations that beset me! 
Save me from those lucid deliriums! You, who are 
pure, you who are honest and loyal! ” 


THE CONDUCTOR-IN-CHIEF 


75 


And he wept—he wept as if with his courage he 
were also losing his virtue, his nobleness, and his 
dignity. 


IX 


RENT’S PROPOSITION 

The train was dashing along at full speed toward 
Bale, and Roland was inspecting the compartments, 
when he was accosted by the conductor of the car. 

"What a poor detective you would make! ” cried 
the latter, as he removed his cap. "I have been 
here half an hour, and you have not recognized me 
yet.” 

"Ren£!” exclaimed Roland, in surprise. 

"Yes! and I suppose you want to know what I am 
doing here. I will tell you in a few moments. 
First, let us hurry and prepare the beds for the 
travelers—fortunately, there are only three—and 
then we shall be at liberty to talk.” 

Montfranchet thought he must be dreaming. 
Why was Rene here in the humble uniform of a 
conductor? The two friends soon finished their 
task, and retired to a vacant compartment. 

"Just imagine, my good Roland, that it is only a 
week since I learned what had become of you. When 
I left you after our chance meeting, I hurried home 
to reconcile myself to my father. When I once give 
my word, I keep it. Well, I told him of all your 
successes at college, of your simple and laborious 
76 


RENE'S PROPOSITION 


77 


life, notwithstanding the great fortune that was 
apparently in store for you, and of your noble and 
disinterested conduct after the catastrophe. Then 
I related your obstinate struggle, and the impossi¬ 
bility of acquiring a position worthy of you. I 
even told him that by loaning you money, and 
pawning my jewels, I believed that I was simply 
fulfilling my duty as a friend. The master of my 
destiny did not seem displeased, and he promised 
to place you somewhere. A couple of days later 
1 ventured to question him ; he answered, in a good- 
natured tone: ‘Don’t trouble yourself; I have given 
M. Montfranchet a situation on the Northern Span¬ 
ish Railway, at a salary of three thousand francs a 
year. He left last night for Burgos.’ Hem! my 
father is quite a jester, you see.” 

"My dear Rene, I suspected as much,” said Roland, 
smiling, as he pressed his friend’s hand affection¬ 
ately. 

"Monsieur, my father tried to humiliate me in 
your person; that is all. When I learned the truth, 
at first I wanted to make a scene; but then I 
thought it better to use a little ruse. And you 
shall see what luck I had! Yesterday I found an 
excellent opportunity for you: a Madame Readish 
presented herself at my office to inquire if we knew 
an educated and well-bred young man who spoke 
several languages. I immediately thought of you. 
I praised you immensely, and as this Mrs. Readish 
seems to have quite romantic ideas, I gave her to 


78 


SUCH IS LIFE 


understand that there was some mystery in your 
life. In short, she wishes to see you. The day 
after to-morrow we shall again be in Paris, and 
Mrs. Readish will expect you at the Hotel Bristol, 
between two and three o’clock in the afternoon. 
You will therefore have time to rest before calling 
upon her.” 

"You are the best of friends!” replied Roland, 
who was profoundly touched by this active and 
vigilant friendship. “But it is impossible for me 
to accept.” 

"Why so?” 

"For two reasons. To begin, Mrs. Readish would 
only keep me a few months, so that some fine 
day I should again find myself without a position, 
and—” 

"Allow me to interrupt you. Before going any 
further, I must refute yciir first objection. The 
position which I offer is very lucrative; my con¬ 
ditions were not refused: all your expenses paid, 
and a salary of a thousand francs a month. Six 
months of work assured, and three payments in ad¬ 
vance before the departure.” 

"I am to leave Paris, then?” 

"Yes; I will tell you all about it by and by. 
But first I want to hear your second objection.” 

"It is this: in accepting a situation as con¬ 
ductor-in-chief, I > took an inferior but honorable 
position; in entering this woman’s service, I shall 
only be a sort of valet.” 


RENE'S PROPOSITION 


79 


“Not at all; yo-u will be treated like an equal. 
Mrs. Readish takes a courier, who will be at your 
orders, as well as at those of his mistress.” 

Roland was silent; what could he say? 

“You are, then, convinced? That is fortunate!” 
cried Rene, triumphantly. “Now, before I explain 
to you who this Mrs. Readish is, and what she 
expects of you, I must relate how I come to be 
here under this disguise. It was necessary that I 
should converse with you. I therefore asked my 
father for three days* vacation to visit my aunt 
Eugenie at Lyons—and, you know, aunt Eugenie 
is sacred in my father’s eyes. Just think of it! 
she is seventy-two, and I am her only heir! Well, 
the vacation obtained, I next sent a request to the 
conductor who travels with you to come to my 
office. I gravely announced to him that the company 
granted him forty-eight hours of rest, and a bonus 
of a louis. The poor devil could scarcely believe 
his senses, the windfall was so unexpected. 
Then, everything being settled, I hurried to the 
Gare de VEst, donned the conductor’s uniform, and 

i 

here I am." 

The two friends laughed heartily.. Roland was 
much amused by Rene’s scheme to obtain an inter¬ 
view with him. 

“Now, my dear Ren6,“said he, “tell me who this 
person is who is in want of an interpreter, and 
what will be expected of me." 

Rent’s explanation was clear and to the point. 


80 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Of Russian origin, Mrs. Readish had married a 
very wealthy American, who four years later left her 
a widow with one daughter. After a short widow¬ 
hood, she was united to another American, called 
M. Readish. He, no less obliging than his pred¬ 
ecessor, also died in a year or two. And the 
young woman found herself free once more, at the 
age of thirty-two. Her first husband left her a 
large fortune, which she easily realized upon. The 
second, on the contrary, possessed immense proper¬ 
ties in the Western Territories of the United States, 
and a banking house in Indo-China, in the German 
colonies of Amoy and Tien-Tsin. Being forced to 
liquidate to avoid being robbed by her agents, Mrs. 
Readish had decided to undertake this terrible 
voyage. She therefore required an active and well 
educated young man, who spoke English and Ger¬ 
man. During these ten months of absence, Roland 
would receive at least ten thousand francs, and 
being free from expense, he would bring back the 
greater part of this sum. Was it not better than 
to recommence each night this perpetual shuttle 
between Paris and Bale, and between Bale and 
Paris? 

"Now you know all," ended Ren6. "But you 
need not hurry to give an answer. You have 
plenty of time to come to a decision before the day 
after to-morrow. .If you will allow me, I will 
stretch myself on these cushions and go to sleep, 
for I am completely worn out." 


RENE'S PROPOSITION 


81 


Now that Rene had explained the situation, 
Roland’s hesitations diminished. Why not accept 
this offer? The voyage tempted him. He felt the 
need of escaping the wretched existence in which 
he vegetated. The free space, the unknown, the 
surprises of an extended expedition, appeared smil¬ 
ing to his wearied imagination. Besides, was not 
America the supreme resource of persons who have 
lost their all? The young man said to himself 
that perhaps he might find over there that envied 
position he could not obtain in France. He there¬ 
fore resigned himself to a separation from Alice—to 
see her no more, and to live far away from her. 
Alas! he thought, sadly, if Mrs. Readish left for 
America at an early date, he would be unable to 
assist at his pretty sister’s marriage. He could at 
least give her two-thirds of the three thousand 
francs he would receive in advance. Who was this 
woman, with whom he should live during long 
months? Rene’s narrative reassured Roland’s sen¬ 
sitive pride. But he asked himself if this stranger’s 
character would agree with his own; if, in the 
intimate existence that an ocean voyage inevitably 
produces, something would not happen which might 
place them in a false position toward each other. 
Roland soon refuted all the objections that presented 
themselves to him. We always reason in favor of 
our desires—and he desired to go. The more so, 
as he wanted to escape from the thoughts that 
haunted him—those thoughts that seduced his brain 
Such is Life 6 


82 


SUCH IS LIFE 


and shocked his conscience. He reflected all night 
on Rent’s proposition, and when he awakened his 
friend half an hour before reaching Bale, he had 
come to a decision. 

‘‘I accept,” he said, smiling, as his friend opened 
his eyes. 

“Very good! ” replied Rene, sleepily. ‘‘Let us go 
to the hotel. When you awoke me I was enjoying 
a delicious dream, and I shall be glad to resume it.” 

‘‘That will suit me very well, as I want to rest 
until noon.” 

‘‘All right!” cried Rene. "We will then break¬ 
fast together at a hotel I know on the Rhine, where 
the craw-fish is exquisite.” 


X 


MRS. READISH 

In accepting the position of conductor-in-chief ott. 
a sleeping-car, Roland had felt deeply humiliated. 

His pride was wounded—and pride often has naive 
puerilities ignored by vanity. Man always retains a 
grain of childishness in his character; and Roland, 
being anxious to avoid recognition, had shaved hie 
brown beard. The day before presenting himself; 
to Mrs. Readish at the Hotel Bristol, he cut off hie 
mustache. He smiled grimly as he stood before 
the hair-dresser’s mirror, contemplating his beard¬ 
less face, as smooth as that of a strolling player or: 
a lackey. His blue eyes seemed darker and more 
energetic, his cheeks were sunk, and a nervous grim- 
ace thinned the hitherto smiling lips, while a deep 
line crossed his brow. The expression of his phys¬ 
iognomy had become wild. His uneasy, troubled 
glance had slowly hardened during those days of 
wretchedness. Roland’s beauty was as manly as 
heretofore; but in his haughty face could be read 
a concentrated resolution and an accentuated sever¬ 
ity. 

When he was ushered into the parlor where Mrs 
Readish awaited him, Roland had fully decided tc 
resume his livery if this stranger showed herse: 

83 



84 


SUCH IS LIFE 


rude and disagreeable. But the manner of his re¬ 
ception astonished him so much that he lost all 
sense of reality. At the end of the room, on a long 
chair, reclined a young woman between thirty and 
thirty-five years of age. Mrs. Readish had been 
very beautiful; but now, on a close examination, 
her face looked old in spite of her years, for fine 
and multiplied wrinkles crossed her temples and 
throat. The pale gray eyes were vague, dull and 
faded; the thick blonde hair and white teeth alone 
retained the brilliancy of youth, while the elegant 
hand proclaimed gentle blood. 

“Ah, it is you, Monsieur,” she said, in a languish¬ 
ing voice, when Roland was announced. “Excuse 
me if I do not get up to receive you; I am ill, very 
ill!” 

The young man answered by a correct bow; he 
took a chair, and quietly seated himself. Then, 
raising his eyes to Mrs. Readish, he awaited to be 
interrogated. Roland’s harsh and piercing look 
embarrassed the young woman. She blushed 
slightly, and in a plaintive voice, like that of a 
pleading child, she said: 

“You have seen M. Salverte, Monsieur? I hope 
you accept the conditions he himself exacted?" 

“Yes, Madame.” 

“Ah! very well; I am so glad. You pleased me at 
once, and I do not hide it.” 

She drew a small syringe from a red tube lying 
on the table beside her, remarking: 


MRS. READISH. 


85 


"I am obliged to use morphine. I am suffering 
so. I am ill; oh! very ill.” 

Deftly, and with dexterity, she injected the mor¬ 
phine into her left arm, near the shoulder. Almost 
immediately her head fell back heavily on the soft 
cushion of the chair. 

Roland looked on in astonishment, wondering if 
he were not in the presence of a lunatic. For a 
minute, Mrs. Readish remained motionless, her 
eyes closed, and sunk into a profound stupor. Then 
all at once she began to awaken, slowly, as if com¬ 
ing out of a peaceful slumber. This haft'-dead 
creature was suddenly reanimated with life. She 
arose, brushed back her heavy hair with a coquettish 
gesture, and seated herself on the chair. 

"How strange!” she said, smiling. "Here I am, 
cured. We can now converse. M. Salverte told me 
your name, but I have forgotten it. Will you be 
kind enough to—” 

"Monsieur Rolaad Salbert.” 

"Ah! thank you." 

The young man could hardly conceal his amaze¬ 
ment. This reanimated woman did not at all re¬ 
semble the one he had studied a few moments be¬ 
fore. The dull eyes were now almost dazzling, and 
the lifeless features almost energetic. 

Mrs. Readish took a Russian cigarette from a sil¬ 
ver box, and touched a silver bell. A maid immedi¬ 
ately appeared. 

"Nelly, some fire! ” 


8G 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Mrs. Readish said these three words in a harsh 
voice; with that dry tone of command assumed by 
the English and Russians when addressing their do¬ 
mestics. And having lighted her cigarette, she 
leaned her elbows on the table. 

"I repeat it, Monsieur, you please me very much,” 
she said, graciously. “And I, do I please you?” 

She arose, came slowly toward Roland, and 
stopped before him, with a challenging and mock¬ 
ing smile on her half-opened lips. 

“That is no-t the question, Madame," replied the 
young man, without departing from his icy calm. “I 
have been told that you need a man who speaks Eng¬ 
lish, French, and German. I believe that I can be of 
some service to you in the long voyage you are un¬ 
dertaking. Before coming to any decision, however, 
I wish to be sure that we understand each other.” 

Somewhat disconcerted, Mrs. Readish returned 
to her chair. 

“I thought, however, that I told you, Monsieur—" 

“That you accepted my conditions as far as money 
is concerned? That is true, Madame. But there 
are others which I will have the honor of submit¬ 
ting to you. You will always find me attentive, 
since you are a woman, and desirous of making my¬ 
self agreeable, since I am a gentleman. In exchange, 
I demand that courtesy toward myself which I 
never deny others. ” 

It was impossible to misunderstand the sense of 
these very clear words. A defiant light came into 


MRS. READ1SH 


87 


Mrs. Readish’s eyes as she looked at Roland. Stiff 
and indifferent, he remained disdainful to the nerv¬ 
ousness and impatience of this odd creature. Did 
she suddenly recall the half-confidences made by 
Ren£ Salverte? Mobile of imagination, like all of 
Slavonic race, she no doubt imagined that she was 
dealing with a ruined nobleman. 

“Do not fear, Monsieur. I am too well-born to 
misunderstand your delicacy. Chance has thrown 
us together; I trust you will have no cause to regret 
it. Your cautious susceptibility is quite natural; 
but there is a very simple way of coming to an un¬ 
derstanding. I expect that our voyage will last 
about a year. M. Salverte asked me to advance you 
three months’ salary; you will receive six. In a 
few weeks we can judge each other; and if my char¬ 
acter should not please you, or if yours did not suit 
me, either will have the right to terminate the 
engagement. ” 

The confidence of Mrs. Readish and her generos¬ 
ity overwhelmed Roland. 

“I am much touched by your words, Madame, but 
I decline the offer you are kind enough to make. It 
would be a one-sided contract, with all the advan¬ 
tages in my favor. Let us abide by the conditions 
made by M. Salverte. It is fair that I should re¬ 
ceive one-quarter of my salary before leaving, since 
I am resigning the position I occupy to accompany 
you, but I do not recognize the right to claim 


more. 


88 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"As you wish, Monsieur,” she answered dryly, with 
a shrug of her shoulders. 

There was a short silence; then with a feline ges¬ 
ture, she extended her hand to the young, man. 

"We understand each other, then?” she said. 

"Perfectly, Madame." 

"I leave in three days," she continued. "Please 
leave me your address, and I will send you a ticket 
from Paris to New York, to-morrow. If you await 
me at the gate of the Gave du Havre Thursday morn¬ 
ing at nine o’clock, we shall be traveling compan¬ 
ions. ” 

Roland now arose and, bowing to Mrs. Readish, 
took his leave. An hour later he joined Ren£ at 
their fixed rendezvous. 

"Well!” cried Ren£, "has the interview been 
satisfactory? " 

"Highly satisfactory.” 

Montfranchet was in high spirits. He laughingly 
related his visit at the Hotel Bristol. 

"I know Mrs. Readish but little,” said Salverte, 
laughing, "but enough to understand that you have 
unwittingly executed a masterly stroke—you showed 
yourself proud and haughty with her. She is a 
Russian; and Russians take to that as rabbits take 
to jumping. Only, you have committed a folly.” 

"What is it?” 

"You were offered six thousand francs; you should 
have taken them. It would have been a safeguard 
against Mrs. Readish’s caprices; but after all, per- 


MRS. READ1SH 


haps you have nothing to fear. What seems more 
probable, from your account, is that before six 
weeks my pretty client will be in love with 
you. ” 

This idea struck Roland as being so droll that 
his hilarity increased. 

"I am not joking!” retorted Rene; “I am very se¬ 
rious. This woman has a mania for marrying. 
Having already buried two husbands, she must be 
dreaming of—consummating another! Thanks to me, 
she believes you a hero of romance, and imagines 
that the name M. Salbert conceals a moneyless 
grand seignior. Your haughtiness has done the 
rest. ” 

“That would be the most provoking thing that 
could happen,” said Roland, shaking his head; “for 
I should fly from her as from a pestilence, even if 
I had to pay my passage back to France. But let 
us talk of something else. How shall I notify your 
father?” 

"Simply write a polite letter saying you are go¬ 
ing away. Where can I see you to-morrow?” 

"Rue Cardinet; for I cannot leave my sister dur¬ 
ing the few hours of respite left me.” 

That evening, Roland, his sister and Aristide 
were again reunited in their fifth-story attic. The 
young girl and her fianc£ approved the resolution 
he had taken. It was very hard, no doubt, to be 
separated, and Alice was much grieved at the 
thought of her brother’s absence on her wedding 


90 


SUCH IS LIFE 


day; but the sum promised by the stranger assured 
the future. At first she refused the two thousand 
francs offered by Roland; but he had a categorical 
answer: either Alice said yes, or Mrs. Readish went 
off alone. The young girl yielded perforce, soon 
convinced, moreover, by Aristide’s arguments. The 
voyage would last a year; Roland would return 
with six thousand francs—almost a small fortune. 
The clerk calculated that his brother-in-law would 
not spend more than one hundred louis, since all his 
expenses were paid. These three beings, so rudely 
tried, again revived their banished hopes. With 
her dower of two thousand francs, Alice could at¬ 
tend the Conservatory for the first year; the money 
brought back from America assured three more 
years of peaceful existence. Then all their dreams 
would be realized. Freed from anxiety, emanci¬ 
pated from daily labor, Alice and Roland would 
at last attain their aim—she at the Opera, and he 
admitted to his degree of Doctor of Letters. All 
three dreamed so much of the future that they for¬ 
got the present—the dread of departure, the anx¬ 
ieties of separation and absence. But Alice dis¬ 
played so much courage that Roland controlled his 
grief. 

On the appointed day Mrs. Readish sent a check 
of three thousand francs on the Bank of France, 
and the ticket to New York. Roland would not 
allow Alice and Aristide to accompany him to the 
station. He did not feel strong enough to undergo 


MRS. READISH 


91 


the anguish of a double farewell. But when he 
found himself alone in the carriage, he burst into 
tears—broken hearted. 


XI 


THE DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA 

Mrs. Readish did her utmost to conquer Roland, 
on the way from Paris to Havre. She was really 
a charming young woman—a little paradoxical, 
and a little coquettish, but gay and easily amused. 

She had traveled a great deal, and her faithful 
memory served her well. Montfranchet let her talk 
on, as much for the pleasure of hearing her as to 
remain in his-self-imposed reserve. He determined 
to be very polite, but very cold, for he dreaded 
above all the familiarity of his traveling compan¬ 
ion. After they had passed Rouen, Mrs. Readish* s 
enthusiasm suddenly died out. The light vanished 
from her eyes, the muscles of her face relaxed, and 
innumerable wrinkles appeared on her throat and 
temples. She suddenly grew ten years older, again 
becoming the exhausted and languishing creature 
Roland had seen at their first meeting. 

He had known pathological cases similar to hers. 

Morphinomaniacs are almost incurable. Like all 
of her kind, Mrs. Readish lived only through her 
poison. Six times a day she had recourse to these 
injections, which alone could give her a fictitious 
strength and a passing brilliancy. Moved by pity, 

92 


THE DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA 


93 


Roland contemplated her as she lay stretched on 
the cushions, agitated by nervous tremors. 

"I am so ill, oh! so very ill!” she murmured, in 
a quivering tone. 

Nelly, who was seated at the other end of the 
compartment, seemed to know what to do. She 
quietly prepared the silver syringe, and awaited her 
mistress’ orders. This maid was a pretty girl, with 
a pale, sad face, and discreet manners. 

“I am so ill! oh! so very ill!” repeated the ma¬ 
niac for the second time. “Nelly, my morphine!” 
Without a word, the young girl handed her the silver 
syringe. Untroubled by the young man’s presence, 
Mrs. Readish raised the bottom of her dress and 
inserted the point of the syringe into the calf of 
her leg; then rolled over on the cushions, and closed 
her eyes. Mechanically Roland and Nelly ex¬ 
changed glances. Roland’s seemed to say, “How 
I pity you to be the maid of this crazy woman!” 
and Nelly’s eyes seemed to reply, “You will see 
much worse than that!” Then the young girl 
blushed, and, still sad and silent, returned to her 
seat. Five minutes later Mrs. Readish refound her 
gay spirits and enthusiasm. 

"You seem even more astounded than you were 
the other day,” she said to the young man. 

“I am not astonished, Madame, but I pity you 
with all my heart,” he replied. 

“Ah! ” she exclaimed, somewhat haughtily. Then, 


04 


SUCH IS LIFE 


after a short silence, she smiled, and added, in a 
softened tone: 

“You have a kind heart, my dear friend. Yes, 
mine is indeed a terrible mania. I have already tried 
to cure myself of it. Twoyears ago I went to Berlin, 
at the only hospital for the treatment of this kind 
of diseases. The chief of police made me sign a 
paper by which I bound myself to remain a pris¬ 
oner for three months. Unfortunately, a few weeks 
ago I fell back into my old vice. But let us 
change the subject.” 

At one o’clock the travelers arrived at Havre, and 
went at once to a hotel: the Pereire would not 
weigh anchor until the next morning. Mrs. Read- 
ish excused herself to Roland: she was obliged to 
leave him until dinner, as two of her friends stop¬ 
ping at Frascati’s were expecting her. She indeed 
displayed a great deal of tact to make the young 
man forget the difficulties of his position. Un¬ 
known to them, a kind of intimacy had sprung up 
between them; and when they again met in the 
large dining-room—she in evening dress, and he in 
a black coat—they might have been taken for old 
friends whom a chance journey had unexpectedly 
brought together. The young woman ate with a 
good appetite, chatting with Roland, and relating 
a thousand amusing things. 

“What is your first name?" she asked, when they 
had returned to the parlor. 

“Roland,” he replied, laughing. 


THE DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA 


95 


“Do you not find it troublesome to always call 
me 'Madame?" 

“Not at all.” 

“Oh! yes; you Frenchmen think it is respectful! 
Russians and Americans ace more free. So, if you 
will allow me, I shall call you Roland simply: in re¬ 
turn, instead of your sempiternal ‘Madame/ you 
will call me by my name—Sacha.” 

Roland was often shocked by Mrs. Readish’s tone 
and manners. Did she wish to affect to treat him 
like a man of the world? or did she conceal an 
afterthought? In his present doubt, he resolved 
to maintain his reserve and politeness. 

“You do me much honor,” he replied. “But 
do you not think that such apparent familiarity 
would appear somewhat extraordinary?" 

“As you wish! ” she said, shruggingher shoulders 
as usual. 

Wine was now brought in; she had the table 
placed before her near the fire-place. 

“What will you take?” she asked Roland. 

“Nothing, Madame, thank you.” 

“Oh! I am not as temperate as you!” she 
cried. 

And taking the bottle of champagne, she filled a 
small glass, which she raised to her lips with the 
rapid movement of an experienced tippler, and 
swallowed the contents at a single draught. 

“You smoke cigarettes also,” she said, as she 
produced a silver cigarette-holder. “I am delighted 


90 


SUCH IS LIFE 


to see that we possess one vice in common, Mon¬ 
sieur the perfect man.” 

And the conversation went on as before. From 
time to time, Sacha poured out a fresh glass of wine 
as quietly and calmly as an old soldier in a tavern. 
The wine increased her gayety. Her cheeks 
flushed, and her glance became sharp and penetrat¬ 
ing. At ten o’clock she arose and extended her 
hand to Montfranchet. 

“Good-night,” she said. “I am so sleepy I must 
go to bed. A demain . ” 

When the young man was left alone, he began to 
reflect. What was this strange woman, proud even 
to haughtiness, or simple to forgetfulness? By 
retaining the same attitude toward her, he hoped to 
maintain their relations on a friendly footing. Had 
Mrs. Readish been too familiar, she would have 
embarrassed him; too haughty, she would have 
humiliated him. It were better not to insinuate 
himself into a more dangerous intimacy. As he 
went upstairs the clock struck twelve. The apart¬ 
ments engaged by Sacha were composed of a parlor, 
bedroom, and toilet-room for herself, followed by 
two other bedrooms—one for Nelly, and one for 
Roland. 

As he reached the first story, the young man heard 
a great commotion at the extremity of the corridor. 
It was Sacha’s y.oice, resounding loud and furious 
in the silence of the night. Then he heard aery of 
pain—the prolonged and plaintive cry of a suffering 


THE DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA 


07 


creature. What could have happened? At last 
the noise ceased, and Roland went to his room. 
But he could not sleep; on the eve of a distant 
voyage, a thousand conflicting thoughts filled his 
brain. What was his sister doing? Of what was 
she thinking? How long it would be before he 
should see her again, and renew their common exist¬ 
ence, which had been filled with such bitter tears 
and such sweet recollections! He would not be in 
Paris for Alice’s marriage, and a secret uneasiness 
tortured him. Not that he doubted Aristide’s 
goodness; but so many pitfalls separate the dream 
from the reality. Suddenly he thought he heard a 
sound of weeping and moaning near him; some¬ 
thing like the plaintive cry of a wounded child. 
Could Mrs. Readish have struck Nelly? Impossi¬ 
ble. This odd woman seemed kind; she displayed 
infinite tact in her relations with him; why should 
she not act the same with the young girl? Finally 
he sunk into a deep slumber, and did not awaken 
until morning. The Pereire sailed at nine o’clock; 
but the passengers were united on the deck long 
before the signal for departure. 

“There are only two agreeable moments in an 
ocean voyage,” laughed Sacha, as she pressed 
Roland’s hand; “the moment of departure and the 
moment of arrival.” 

“Do you suffer from seasickness, Madame?” 

“Terribly.” 

“I pity you; one suffers abominably.” 

Such is Life 7 


98 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"I shall be obliged to remain in my cabin; but I 
count on you to shorten the hours of our journey,” 
she said archly. 

“If my babbling does not bore you,” he replied, 
"I shall be happy to bear you company from time 
to time.” 

Sacha looked at Roland with her enigmatical eyes 
and that coquettish air of a woman who is bound 
to please at any cost. 

"Decidedly, my dear—I scarcely know what to 
call you. I do not like the word 'Monsieur/ it is 
too cold and distant; and I cannot call you Roland, 
since you prohibited it last night—oh! very po¬ 
litely, I admit. But look here! we shall make a 
compromise: neither you nor I will use any of 
those exaggerated terms of politeness. I will sup¬ 
press the ‘Monsieur/ and you will suppress the 
‘Madame.* ” 

"I shall try; but what were you going to say?” 

"That you are decidedly a charming young man. 
I am delighted with your promise of a few moments 
ago. Thanks to you, I shall not find the journey 
too wearisome.” 

During the entire voyage, Mrs. Readish appeared 
on deck only two or three times. In his long con¬ 
versations with her, Roland had leisure to study 
her at his ease; but the more he observed her, the 
less he understood her. Was she good? No, 
assuredly not. Bad, then? Perhaps—with shades 
of incomprehensible emotions and provoking senti- 


THE DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA 


99 


mentalities. The young man still retained the 
same attitude. He was cold as ice when Sacha 
became too familiar, and relaxed somewhat in 
reserve when she spoke on indifferent topics. She 
rarely made any allusion to her past life. Though 
twice a widow, she acted as if she had never mar¬ 
ried; never mentioning the names of her husbands, 
and scarcely that of her daughter. But when she 
spoke of herself, Mrs. Readish, on the contrary, 
was inexhaustible. Her successes in the world— 
in all the worlds; the distracted lovers; the pas¬ 
sions sjie inspired, were so many agreeable sub¬ 
jects, of which she never wearied. As Roland was 
not talkative, she found him very spirituel. One 
must be very intelligent to be a good listener. But 
in truth the more he listened to Sacha, the more 
she displeased him. Certain traits of her character 
shocked him violently. The egotism of this young 
and pretty woman was betrayed at every instant. 

A sudden incident changed this instinctive dislike 
to a deep antipathy. It was on the sixth night of 
their voyage, and Roland, being too nervous to 
sleep, went up on deck. Although they were near¬ 
ing the coast of Newfoundland, the sea remained 
calm; the steamer was gliding rapidly, scarcely 
rocked by the regular motion of the waves. Stretched 
indolently in a rocking-chair, the young man was 
dreaming of the past and future, when he saw Nelly 
dragging herself painfully up the cabin stairway. 

"Are you ill?” he asked, kindly. 


100 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“No—no, Monsieur; thank you.” 

He looked at her; tears were flowing down her 
cheeks. 

"You must be deeply grieved, my child,” he said; 
"you are always sad; but now—” 

"You are very kind, Monsieur; oh! yes, very 
kind." 

And, no longer able to suppress her emotion, 
Nelly hid her face in her hands, and wept unre¬ 
servedly, with the hopelessness of a crushed creat¬ 
ure. Roland tried t<3 comfort her by kind words. 

"If you only knew, Monsieur, how grateful I am 
for your sympathy! I believed myself hardened to 
pain when I met madame. Alas! she tortures me 
so much that I fear I shall not have the courage of 
bearing it to the end. But indeed I must! I have 
two little sisters to feed, for we are orphans; and 
madame pays me well to bear her caprices, her vio¬ 
lences, her anger when she beats me." 

"What! your mistress beats you?” cried Roland, 
indignantly. 

"Yes; when she is intoxicated.” 

The young man made a gesture of disgust, but 
quickly repressed it, that he might not interrupt 
poor Nelly’s confidences. He listened to her 
narrative with poignant interest. Since two years 
she had suffered so much that Roland’s heart was 
filled with sympathy, and felt a fraternal compas¬ 
sion for those orphans. Born of honest peasants of 
Brie, Nelly had left the primary school at fifteen 


THE DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA 


101 


to enter the service of a Parisian bourgeois. She 
was very happy until three years later, when she 
suddenly lost her father and mother. The-young 
girl was left with her two little sisters to support. 
Being courageous and patient, she economized 
every sou to provide for the children. 'But Nelly’s 
mistress soon after left for Montauban, and she 
was forced to search for another place. She had 
then become Mrs. Readish’s maid; she furnished 
her clothes, and gave her a hundred francs a 
month; this was a fortune. 

The young girl spoke of her mistress timidly. 
Beaten and abused, she could not speak well of her; 
as she ate the bread of that woman, she did not 
like to speak ill of her. She was, however, ex¬ 
plicit enough for Roland to understand the com¬ 
plicated and vicious character of Sacha. He did 
not dare question Nelly too closely on Mrs. Read¬ 
ish’s private life; but he guessed that it could not 
have been very edifying, and was perhaps filled with 
adventures. 

Having become a morphinomaniac, the young 
woman at the end of two years had been seriously 
ill. it was then that she took refuge in the 
Berlin hospital—an elegant asylum for wealthy 
maniacs. The statistics show that of one hundred 
morphinomaniacs, thirty are completely cured, forty- 
six die poisoned, and twenty-four become drunkards, 

When Mrs. Readish left Berlin, she took mor¬ 
phine no longer, but she drank. Reconquered by her 


102 


SUCH IS LIFE 


vice, she added alcohol to opium: morphine during 
the day and whisky during the night, until she fell 
panting on her bed. 

Disgust mingled with Roland’s anger. From his 
own observations, he knew that Nelly did not exag¬ 
gerate. He felt wearied, disgusted. What! fate 
condemned him to live by the side of this vicious, 
drunken and debauched creature! Leave her? Im¬ 
possible! Mrs. Readish would never consent to sep¬ 
arate herself from him. He would be obliged to 
refund the cost of the voyage and return home. 
And after thus eating half of his savings, he would 
fall back into black misery. Better follow Aristide’s 
wise advice, to accept and endure everything 
that he might amass a little fortune which would 
assure the future of the brother and sister. Until 
now, Roland had no right to complain of Sacha— 
at least personally. But what would the future 
bring? 

Nelly perhaps guessed Roland's apprehensions, 
for she concluded her confidences by saying: 

"You, Monsieur, are above those degradations. In 
spite of her violent nature, Madame will be careful 
not to offend you. She needs your intelligence, 
your society, your talents. In short, you inspire 
her—” 

She blushed, stopped a moment, then resumed: 

"She immediately guessed—as I—in fact as every¬ 
body does who comes near you -that you are a man 
of the world, a man superior to the misfortune 


THE DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA 


103 


which has compelled you to accept a position be¬ 
neath your rank. Madame fears you, and with 
her, fear is but another form for esteem. I beseech 
you, use your influence that she maybe, if not kind, 
at least less harsh with me. All I ask is that she 
may not beat me. I cannot leave my place, for 
my two sisters have no one but me. And what would 
become of them if I failed to send them money? 
You will grant my prayer, will you not, Monsieur?” 

“You are a good and gentle child,” said Roland, 
with emotion. “You may count on me, although I am 
not sure of possessing as much influence as you 
imagine. To console yourself, remember that every 
human creature has something to bear in this 
world. I have my sufferings also. I will try to 
help you. If I fail, it will be because the bad 
instincts of this woman are stronger than my will.” 

As Nelly looked at him with her calm, sad eyes, 
Roland’s face—that face so hardened by suffering, 
suddenly lighted up with an expression of secret pity. 
The maid took the young man’s hand, and after 
kissing it respectfully in a burst of gratitude, she 
hurried toward the cabin stairway. He remained 
buried in painful thoughts. Decidedly the same 
fate awaited all unfortunates. How stupid are 
those who remain honest, since money is every¬ 
thing here below, and since intelligence and virtue 
are nothing. Because she was rich, this miserable 
Russian could torture a poor, defenseless girl. Ah! 
well, some day he would be rich also; he would 


104 


SUCH IS LIFE 


get money, since the possession of it was a neces¬ 
sity. He would recoil from no means to obtain it. 
Heretofore his conscience had not protected him 
from misery any more than his honor against temp¬ 
tation. 


XII 


THE MORPHINOMANIAC 

Until a few years ago, not many travelers vent¬ 
ured in the Far West. The trappers and pioneers 
alone had explored the immense Territories lying 
west of the Mississippi. Nevertheless, the lost 
children of the barbarous world in which we live— 
the world which idealogists call civilization— 
have rushed beyond that great river, in quest of 
adventures. They went in search of fortune, and 
found it. One day the rumor spread that the 
Rocky Mountains contained gold and silver mines, 
even richer than the placers of California; and a 
host of natives and emigrants rushed to Wyoming, 
Idaho, and Dakota. 

There were as yet no villages. . A few log- 
cabins alone attested the presence of human beings 
in that unknown country. Then railroads soon 
traversed the United States, forming a link between 
the Atlantic and the Pacific; crossing the Allegha- 
nies, the Mississippi, the Missouri, the Cheyenne, 
and the Rocky Mountains. A great movement of 
emigration set westward, peopling, little by little, 
those taciturn solitudes. Some worked in the mines, 
others tilled the rich, fertile soil of the prairies, 

105 


106 


SUCH IS LIFE 


while the wiser ones invented a new industry—they 
became ranchmen. 

It is supposed that, thousands of centuries ago, 
an inland sea covered the center of the United 
States, and the southern part of Canada. As a 
consequence of volcanic disorders, this sea disap¬ 
peared, being violently cast to the east and west. In 
its place were formed those great lakes of the north, 
those enormous sheets of water which flow to the 
south through the Mississippi. The soil hitherto 
covered by the waves became a prairie, when 
Fenimore Cooper’s heroes, Indians and trappers, re¬ 
lentlessly pursued each other. Later, the last of 
the Mohicans was replaced by adventurers from 
all countries and all nations. From time to time 
it was learned that the discovery of a miraculous 
vein had suddenly transformed a poor miner into 
a millionaire; arrd the exploits of the ranchmen re¬ 
sounded through the United States and England. 

Baron de Mandat Grancey, a Frenchman, by the 
publishing of his remarkable book, “In the Rocky 
Mountains,” gave the world a full account of the 
incredible existence of these bold and unscrupulous 
colonists. Ingeniously written, with a penetrating 
irony and deep observation, M. de Mandat Grancey’s 
work traces the monography of the ranchman, and 
that of the cowboy, his wild but indispensable col¬ 
league. The former breeds cattle or horses on a 
large scale; the latter overlooks the innumerable 
herds that wander at hazard. The ranchman usually 


THE MORPHINOMANIAC 


107 


has a certain respect for the law—less through con¬ 
science than through interest. It is true, that in 
the United States the law does not count for much; 
for a handful of dq^ars, judges are willing to inter¬ 
pret it in an obliging manner. But with the cow¬ 
boy even this slender link of social right does not 
exist. This amiable child of the Far West recognizes 
no code but his own sweet will, and no judge but 
his revolver. M. de Mandat Grancey endows him 
with an audacity often unpunished, and a ferocity 
always admired. The cowboy who is not a thief 
is looked upon with scorn; but the thief who is also 
an assassin always inspires his comrades with a 
particular esteem, made up of a great deal of fear, 
a little disdain, and a vague sort of affection. 

For the inhabitants of New York or Boston the 
Far West is a kind of half-legendary country. 
When Mrs. Readish told her Fifth avenue friends 
that she was going to Deadwood, near the other 
extremity of Dakota, to sell the lands and mines left 
her by her second husband, they all exclaimed in 
horror, "Why, no one ever dares venture into that 
paradise of outlaws! " The daily papers were filled 
with accounts of the sinister doings of cowboys and 
their likes. And besides, what a terrible journey! 
The Chicago and North-Western Railway stopped 
at Pierre. She would then have to continue her 
journey across the prairie in abominable stage¬ 
coaches, an uncomfortable vehicle, that would wear 
out the most robust man in twenty-four hours. 


108 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Sacha laughingly replied that she was not going 
to Deadwood for pleasure, but on business. Half 
of her fortune was invested there. Should she sacri¬ 
fice it, then, through cowardice or indifference? 
One can well brave a few dangers—imaginary, no 
doubt, and endure a soon-forgotten fatigue, when 
it was a question involving two or three millions. 
She owed this sacrifice to her daughter’s future. 
Had Roland accompanied Mrs. Readish in society 
he would have remarked that this mother, who rarely 
spoke of her daughter, displayed a great deal of 
affection for her when in New York. But he had 
flatly refused to accompany the young woman to 
the fashionable drawing-rooms of New York soci¬ 
ety. He was at her disposition as interpreter in 
hotels, on board steamers or railroad trains, but he 
had no inclination to translate the pretty phrases 
of society ladies to the Russian. Moreover, they 
nearly all spoke French, and Sacha had no great 
cause to regret the absence of her companion. This 
refusal somewhat strained the relations between 
Roland and Mrs. Readish. When she resumed her 
journey toward the West, after a few days of rest, 
Sacha showed herself less cordial, more haughty, 
but also less familiar. On his side, Roland in¬ 
closed himself in an icy reserve. His politeness 
became rigidity. He was respectful, as a well-bred 
man always is toward a woman, whatever she may 
be; but he no longer paid her those delicate atten¬ 
tions which had so charmed her until a week ago. 


THE MORPHINOMANIAC 


109 


While in Chicago, a violent scene took place; 
the first that had occurred between these two be¬ 
ings, so dissimilar, and whom a capricious fatality 
had thrown together. It was on the night of their 
arrival, and they were to leave the next day. 
During dinner, Sacha remained silent, and scarcely 
looked at Roland. The latter soon retired from 
the table, and went out to stroll about the city, re¬ 
turning about midnight. He had scarcely closed 
his door, when he heard a commotion in the corri¬ 
dor; a weak, half-strangled voice was calling for 
help. Roland at once understood the cause of the 
uproar, and hastened to the assistance of the unfor¬ 
tunate Nelly, standing on the threshold of her 
apartment, with disheveled hair and disordered 
dress. Mrs. Readish was dragging the struggling 
girl by the hair. 

When she saw the young man, the Russian stepped 
back into her room. 

“Wait a moment, Madame,” he said, imperiously. 
And gently raising the weeping Nelly, he conduct¬ 
ed her to her room. He then returned to Sacha, 
fully determined to leave her at once; resolved to 
break the link of chance that bound him to this 
shrew. He did not consider that a sudden rupture 
would ruin all his hopes. His heart was filled 
with disgust; he was anxious to fly, and never 
again see this abject and despicable creature. 

She had sunk motionless into an arm-chair, her 
arms folded and her eyes fixed. 


110 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"What right have you to meddle in my affairs?” 
she cried, hoarsely. "I never interfere in yours.” 

"My answer will be brief," he replied, calmly. 
"I leave you at once, and return to France.” 

"Ah! ” she exclaimed, with an abrupt gesture, as 
if she had received an unexpected blow. 

A half-filled bottle of whisky stood on the table 
beside her. The wretched woman was drunk; but 
not enough to prevent her from seeing the disgust 
of her traveling companion. Then a feeling of 
shame came over her, as if she realized the horror 
of her vice for the first time, and she stammered: 

"I beseech you—do not decide hastily—you see 
that it is impossible for me to argue with you— 
Pray reflect until to-morrow—I crave your pardon 
for the words I have said—for that insane anger 
that led me to commit an unworthy action." 

"My resolution is irrevocable,” he replied, coldly. 
"I have not the patience to bear anymore. Adieu." 

He had reached the door, when Sacha arose pain¬ 
fully, came toward him, and tried to take his hand. 

"No, no; do not go," she pleaded. "Oh! do not 
go, I beseech you! If necessary, I will delay my 
departure twenty-four hours—but be kind and in¬ 
dulgent—I am so much to be pitied." 

She spoke in a hollow voice, like the moan of a 
person in a fever. But Roland merely bowed and 
went out. 

Left to herself, Mrs. Readish remained crushed 
and overwhelmed, muttering incoherent words. At 


THE MORPHINOMANIAC 


111 


last she dragged herself to the bed, and sank down 
upon it with the heavy lassitude of a drunkard, and 
she soon fell into a profound, brutal slumber. Ro¬ 
land knew that she needed his protection in the peril¬ 
ous and fatiguing journey she was undertaking. And 
perhaps, after all, he was only too willing to yield. 
He had such a passionate desire to extricate him¬ 
self from the abyss. He reflected that to go meant 
ruin; to remain was humiliating, unless, feigning 
to yield to Sacha’s entreaties, he dexterously took 
advantage of this occasion to dominate the danger¬ 


ous maniac. 


XIII 


THE COWBOYS 

It was barely daylight, and Roland was prepar¬ 
ing to go out, when he heard a soft knock at his door. 
To his great surprise, Nelly entered, still very pale, 
and agitated by the violent scene of the night. 

"What is it, my child?” he asked, in astonish¬ 
ment. 

"Pardon me, Monsieur,” she said, lowering her 
eyes and blushing, "if I have taken the liberty of 
coming to you. But I come to beseech you not to 
ruin me.” 

"Ruin you?” he echoed, bewildered. 

"I overheard—oh! in spite of myself—I over¬ 
heard from my room the words exchanged between 
Madame and you. Your departure would reduce me 
to misery. Madame would never forgive me for 
being the cause of that misfortune; for it would be 
a terrible misfortune to her if you abandoned her 
now. And she would revenge herself on me by 
making me still more miserable, or by sending me 
away. ” 

Nelly’s prayer agreed with Roland’s secret in¬ 
clination. After his threat, he hardly knew how to 

avoid carrying it into execution. Now that he re- 
112 


THE COIVBOYS 


1.13 


gretted his foolish pride of the night before, he was 
glad to seize this unexpected pretext. 

“Do not distress yourself,” he said, with a smile. 
“Since you would be the victim of my resolution, I 
will not leave your mistress.” 

“How good you are! how good you are!” she re¬ 
peated, her face brightening up. 

Roland was somewhat abashed by this effusion of 
gratitude, which he so little merited. 

“Tell Mrs. Readish that I will call on her at 
eleven o’clock,” he said. 

Sacha had not hoped for this visit. On awaken¬ 
ing, she recalled the events of the night, and was 
struck with terror at the thought that she would be 
left alone with her maid in the wilds of the Far 
West. But how could she induce Roland to forego 
his decision? She thought she knew him, and the 
affected coldness of the young man, his icy polite¬ 
ness, inspired her with a timid respect. She could 
not hide her joy when Nelly brought her the message. 

“We shall remain in Chicago one day longer,” 
she said to her maid. “I need rest.” 

Being desirous of looking prettier and more ele¬ 
gant than usual, she ordered the young girl to 
bring out her most becoming toilet. When Roland 
entered Sacha’s room, he was amazed. Could this 
charming woman of the world be the drunkard of 
the previous evening? She hastened toward him, 
and taking his hand, forced him to sit down beside 
her. 


Such is Life 8 


114 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“Tell me at once that you are not angry with me, 
and that you forgive me,” she cried. 

“Madame—” 

“Do not look at me so severely. I shall never 
dare—do not be cruel to a poor, nervous woman, 
who does not always know what she is doing. Oh! 
I am not searching for excuses—no, for 1 have 
none! I am only pleading extenuating circum¬ 
stances. 1 do not even appeal to your heart, but to 
your generosity. Think of all the dangers I will 
meet before I reach Deadwood! It would be 
wrong of you to abandon me at this moment, when 
I have no one but you to defend me.” 

There was a short silence, during which she looked 
at Roland beseechingly. 

“You must understand that I will not tolerate 
such scenes—" 

“Oh! believe—" she interposed. 

“I am not yielding to your prayers,” he contin¬ 
ued, coldly. “Because, in fact, the interest that 
you inspired in me has vanished. But Nelly has 
made the same request as you.” 

‘ And it is to that girl that I owe this favor! " she 
exclaimed, angrily. “Very flattering, upon my 
word. ” 

“That girl is a woman like yourself, Madame; 
and, like you, she is entitled to my protection. I 
see but one difference between the servant and the 
mistress: one is poor, the other is rich. Conse¬ 
quently, I will not tolerate—you understand—I will 


THE COIVBOYS 


115 


not tolerate that you inflict any more suffering on 
that child. I consent to remain with you on those 
conditions; but if you break your promise, noth¬ 
ing will detain me. Remember, that here in Chi¬ 
cago, you can easily replace me; once on the prairie, 
it will be impossible. Therefore consider well.” 

"I have considered everything. I need you; I 
will keep you—but as a friend—oh! yes, a friend! 
What happiness if you could acquire influence over 
me. I am not vicious, believe me; my bad habits 
alone make me appear so. Ah! had I met none but 
noble and generous beings like you! ” 

She spoke sadly, with that fawning gentleness 
of the S/ave, who will even forfeit self-respect to 
satisfy a caprice. 

"In the future you will have nothing to reproach 
me, I swear it. I have always been left to myself, 
with no one to scold me. I permit you, and, if need 
be, I beseech you to be severe with me; to give in 
neither to my caprices nor my whims. Treat me 
like a naughty little girl; I shall be only too happy 
to have a master!” 

Was there a double meaning in these odd words? 
or was this unbalanced mind suddenly giving way 
to a nervous crisis? 

Nelly appeared timidlv at the door to announce 
breakfast. 

"Nelly, I was harsh with you,” said Mrs. Read- 
ish, "very harsh; my friend Roland has pointed 
out my failings. Pray excuse me." 


116 


SUCH IS LIFE 


The young girl murmured a few words, and hur¬ 
ried away. She knew by experience that her mis¬ 
tress’ gentleness would not last long. Indeed, she 
feared Sacha’s anger less than her bursts of repent¬ 
ance. 

During the whole day, Mrs. Readish was in a 
charming humor. Enticed by the brightness of the 
sun and the blue sky, she expressed a desire to 
drive around the city. Having obtained Roland 
as an escort, she displayed a thousand charms to 
make him forget their passing misunderstanding. 
Soon after dinner she retired, as they were to 
leave the next day, and she needed a good night’s 
rest. 

To pass the evening away, the young man went 
to the opera; but the melodies of Mireil , sung by a 
strolling troupe, could not distract his thoughts. 
How could he ever have believed that this violent 
quarrel should end thus. What a strange woman 
Sacha was! He asked himself if she did not, in 
fact, deserve some indulgence. Always spoilt, 
twice a widow, accustomed to no law but her fan¬ 
cies, how could she have curbed her character and 
restrained her appetites. She was but a sick and 
nervous woman, after all. He recalled a phrase 
credited* to M. Charcot: "There are in Europe two 
hysterical pepple—the French and the Russians." 
Nevertheless, a Slave has not the same tempera¬ 
ment nor the same instincts as a Latin." Roland was 
therefore delighted that things should have turned 


THE COWBOYS 


117 


out so well. On the one hand, he was making 
provision for the future; on the other, he imag¬ 
ined he had tamed Mrs. Readish. Lulled by this 
illusion, he little foresaw the terrible event that 
was preparing itself. 

* * * * * * 

The terminus of the railway was at Pierre, a new 
town on the shores of the Missouri. To cross the 
two hundred miles of prairie that separate this 
town from Deadwood, they were obliged to take 
an odd vehicle that the Yankees audaciously call a 
stage-coach. Alas! Where are the coaches of 
other days? The stage-coach in vogue in the Far 
West is a kind of cart perched on two high 
wheels, and covered with canvas. Four heavy 
horses dragged this vehicle, under the surveillance 
of a driver and a conductor. These gentlemen are 
well aware that, being both free citizens of free 
America, they may aspire to the highest functions 
of the State. They take advantage of this by being 
intoxicated six hours out of twelve. Fortunate 
indeed are the travelers if this conductor and 
driver have not beforehand signaled their coming 
to the numerous cowboys scattered along the road, 
lying in wait to rob the coach. No bridges to 
cross the creeks or rivers; though a flat-bottomed 
boat is sometimes provided by the company, but 
usually they cross at the ford. The meals that 
awaited the travelers in the log-houses were 
distinguished by a distressing uniformity. Twice 


118 


SUCH IS LIFE 


a day, at fixed hours, large dishes of bacon and 
boiled potatoes were served on filthy tables. 

Twenty-four hours after their departure from 
Chicago, Mrs. Readish had forgotten all her prom¬ 
ises. Horribly shaken, uttering a groan at every 
jolt of the coach, she again became the insolent 
and violent woman of the first days. The scenery 
of the prairie is of a provoking monotony, and those 
meetings with dirty and ragged Indians enervated 
the patient, who only succeeded in recovering a 
fictitious strength by doubling her usual dose of 
morphine. Moreover, Sacha was beginning to be 
frightened; had it not been for Roland’s presence, 
she would have turned back, for the terrible stories 
related by her good friends of New York troubled 
her uneasy mind. 

About four o’clock in the afternoon, as they were 
nearing Willow Creek, the coach stopped abruptly. 
"Creek” is the universal name given to all the small 
streams, transformed into raging torrents by the 
melting of the snow. Surprised at the stoppage, 
Mrs. Readish hailed the conductor. 

"What is the matter?” she asked, in alarm. 

As the gallant Yankee made no reply, Roland 
jumped out of the coach. He reappeared in ten 
minutes, bringing back the most distressing informa¬ 
tion. It was impossible to go any farther that 
day; the cowboys who acted as stage-drivers were 
on strike since the day before. The company was 
forced to submit to their caprices, as they required 


THE COWBOYS 


119 


a number of men to convey the freight from Pierre 
to Deadwood; and this usually took from fifteen to 
sixteen days. 

Sacha gave vent to loud exclamations. “Great 
heavens! what would become of them?” she cried. 

"Do not fear, Madame,” said Roland; “have a 
little patience, and things will right themselves. 
We must resign ourselves to spending the night in 
that log-house. As to the dangers that you fear, 
I believe them imaginary. I am well armed, and 
will not close my eyes until morning. You may 
sleep in perfect tranquillity; I will watch over us 
all.” 

In truth, the young man felt anything but safe; 
but he did not wish to frighten his traveling com¬ 
panions. He had, in fact, heard that a band of 
bull-whackers and squaw-men* who were on a 
drunken spree, had picked up a quarrel with the cow¬ 
boys. So much the worse for honest people when 
such an incident occurs! The bandits carry off the 
baggage, and the company is compelled to 
indemnify the passengers. 

Sacha’s irritation increased when she was offered, 
for the tenth time, the same meal, composed of 
bread, pork, and beans. She did not say a word; 
but Nelly knew her too well to be deceived. See¬ 
ing her mistress very pale, her eyes brilliant, dis¬ 
gusted with the food, and overexcited by the abuse 
of morphine, the poor girl expected a terrible scene. 


* White men married to squaws. 


120 


SUCH IS LIFE 


The log-house was composed of a large kitchen, 
which served as dining-room for the travelers, and 
a few rooms in the upper story. Sacha and Nelly 
occupied one of these rooms, and Roland had chosen 
a kind of uncomfortable closet, with a single win¬ 
dow overlooking the prairie. From the height of 
his observatory he could scan the horizon and notify 
the two women in time, if danger menaced them. 
The young man, being preoccupied and a little un¬ 
easy, had not remarked the strange manners of Sacha. 
He fully expected that she would replace the absent 
dinner by whisky; but, being unable to prevent 
it, he feigned indifference. After installing him¬ 
self in his closet, he opened the window and leaned 
out. The camps of the bull-whackers were slowly 
nearing the house. The red fires formed a semi¬ 
circle around it, as if the prairie runners wishod 
to prevent the escape of the inhabitants. Sacha, 
Nelly, and Roland were the only stage passengers; 
they were then watched. The situation was be¬ 
coming serious. Alone against twenty-five cut¬ 
throats, Roland knew that he would soon be over¬ 
powered. Where could he call for help? 

During three hours he remained at his post, 
resolved to risk his life to protect the two women in 
his care. Suddenly there was a movement out¬ 
side. Roland saw the men arise, one after the other, 
and light rosin torches at the fires. What did 
they intend to do? Would they set fire to the 
cabin? Then he saw the bandits start in another 


THE COWBOYS 


121 


direction. They were going toward an inclosure, 
surrounded by a wooden fence, wherein the cattle 
and horses for the stage-coach were kept. Roland 
was not aware that they were executing one of their 
favorite maneuvers. They set fire to the fence that 
imprisons the animals; and the latter, frightened by 
the flames, break their halters and rush out madly. 
The people of the log-house, aided by the driver 
and conductor, would go in pursuit, while the 
rogues rifled the baggage, beating or killing the 
imprudent persons who dared dispute the rich booty. 

At this moment a cry came from the room in 
which Sacha and Nelly had retired; soon this was 
followed by sobs. Roland understood that the 
shocking scene enacted in Chicago was being re¬ 
peated in mid-desert. He wanted to watch actively 
over the safety of the party, and he saw himself 
torced to leave his post to tear poor Nelly from 
the fury of this maniac. Half reassured by the 
withdrawal of the prairie parasites, Roland left 
his window and went directly to Mrs. Readish’s 


room. 


XIV 


THE WILLOW CREEK TRAGEDY 

The morphine and alcohol slave is no longer a 
thinking creature; it is a brute of the most dis¬ 
solute instincts, whose insanity may lead to crime. 
Sacha had lost all control over herself. She had 
completely forgotten the promises she had made 
M. Montfranchet. After a struggle of twenty-four 
hours against herself, the unfortunate creature had 
no longer strength to resist. Nelly, who knew 
her mistress’ character, had never felt reassured; far 
from sharing her protector’s confidence, she knew 
that Mrs. Readish would make her pay dearly for 
her audacity; but the poor child had not dared to 
mention her fears. 

As usual, Sacha tried to forget her troubles by 
having recourse to her two poisons; she doubled 
her ration of whisky as she had doubled her dose of 
morphine. Wrapped in her blankets, the young 
woman lay stretched on the woopen floor. Her eyes 
lost in vacancy, deep in thoughts, she remained dumq 
and savage, imbibing the fiery fluid by little swal¬ 
lows. A deep silence reigned, scarcely troubled by 
the vociferations that ascended from the camps with 
out. Nelly was very quiet, hoping her mistress 
would forget her, and thus to escape for one night 
longer the dreaded chastisement. Hours passed 
122 


THE fVI’LLOlV CREEEK TRAGEDY 


123 


aAvay Mrs. Readish neither moved nor spoke. 
Would she sleep off the effects of her drunkenness 
there? All at once, with an abrupt movement, she 
threw off the blankets that enveloped her. 

"Nelly! ” she called harshly. 

"I am at your service, Madame,” said the girl, ris¬ 
ing 

"No phrases! Obey me." 

"Nelly knew the work required of her every night. 
When Mrs. Readish felt her reason drowned and 
sleep invading her, she made the young girl undress 
and drag her to bed. Either Nelly was trembling, 
or her wearied fingers had become numbed, for, 
while taking down Sacha’s blonde tresses, the poor 
child inadvertently scratched her mistress’ fore¬ 
head with the ivory teeth of the comb. The pun¬ 
ishment was not long in coming. Mrs. Readish 
struck her so rudely that she burst into tears. 

"Instead of your stupid crying, you had better go 
on with your work," said her mistress savagely. 

But as Nelly still sobbed, the Russian’s anger 
was turned to frenzy. She threw herself on the 
servant, raining blows upon her, felling her to the 
ground and trampling on her in her rage; while 
Nelly rolled on the floor, crying, and begging for 
mercy. Just then Roland appeared. He remained 
motionless for a moment,astounded at the horrible 
spectacle. But his presence, far from calming the 
furious woman, only increased her frenzy. She owed 
this girl too cruel a humiliation! Casting a look 
of defiance on the young man, she caught her vic¬ 
tim by the hair and dragged her to the middle of 


124 


SUCH IS LIFE 


the room. In his indignation, he rushed forward 
with such ferocity that Sacha loosened her hold 
and recoiled in terror. Then, kneeling down, he 
gently raised Nelly’s almost lifeless form in his 
arms, and assisted her faltering footsteps to the door. 

“Go to my room, my child,” said he. “I will not 
allow you to remain in the service of this demon 
any longer.” 

The young girl obeyed, and Roland turned to 
Sacha. This woman, still young and pretty, ap¬ 
peared hideous under the influence of the violent 
passions that agitated her. 

“You heard my words!" he said, haughtily. 
“Nelly and myself will leave you at once. I should 
be committing a crime if I did not tear this victim 
from the sufferings you inflict upon her.” 

Sacha burst into a loud laugh. 

“Ah! indeed, Monsieur,” she cried. “Do you im¬ 
agine that I will tolerate your perpetual insults 
any longer? Who is master here?” 

She came nearer to him, as if to dare him to his 
face. 

“I am the master here!” he replied. “You are 
a maniac and a drunkard; drunkards and maniacs are 
usually imprisoned or placed under restraint.” 

Exasperated by his words, she rushed on her ad¬ 
versary and struck him as she had struck Nelly ten 
minutes before. Roland’s patience was exhausted; 
he seized her by the wrists, but she tore herself 
from his grasp. The nervous strength of the mor- 
phinomaniac was tenfold that of the woman; yet 
she seemed to have an intuition that she would be 


THE WILLOW CREEK TRAGEDY 


125 


forced to yield, that she would not come out of this 
struggle victorious. Her haggard eyes wandered 
around the room in search of some weapon to de¬ 
fend herself. She gave a sudden cry of joy, and 
snatching a long dagger from its sheath under the 
bedclothes, she rushed at him. The sharp point 
touched Roland’s arm, inflicting a slight wound; 
this goaded him to madness, and his senses deserted 
him. By a quick movement he seized Mrs. Read- 
ish around the waist. She fought desperately, try¬ 
ing to escape from his arms by crouching down, 
and Roland’s hands suddenly closed around the 
young woman’s flexible throat. The struggle was 
short, hurried, and breathless. She resisted furi¬ 
ously, while his fingers tightened impercepti¬ 
bly. 

Suddenly Mrs. Readish gasped, her eyes protrud¬ 
ed, there was a rattling in her throat, and with an 
automatic movement her head fell backward. It 
had all happened so quickly that Montfranchet 
drew back terrified. Sacha staggered as if over¬ 
come by dizziness, and fell lifeless. 

Almost at the same moment loud cries were heard 
from without, coming from the space between the 
house and the river; they were cries of joy, howls 
of triumph, that sounded frantic and sinister in the 
silence of the night. 

“Ah! yes; I had forgotten—the bandits are com¬ 
ing to rob us,” thought Roland. 

He ran to the window and seized his revolver. 
The drunk and ragged bull-whackers, accompanied by 
a few cowboys, were surrounding the house. 


126 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"There is the Frenchman! " exclaimed one of them, 
with a marked Parisian accent. 

His companions renewed their hideous cries, and 
a Yankee with a brutal face retorted: 

"I will take care of your country!” 

And he pointed his rifle at the window. Before 
Roland could withdraw, the murderous ball struck 
his right shoulder, and he sunk down on his knees 
with a hoarse moan. Twice he tried to rise, but 
in vain. He was losing a great deal of blood, and 
exhausting his strength in useless attempts. Roland 
slowly lost consciousness, with the atrocious sensa¬ 
tion that these brigands would show him no mercy. 
He struggled against his weakness for a few seconds 
longer; then his eyes closed, and he remembered 
no more. 

* * * * * * 

He did not regain consciousness until the mid¬ 
dle of the night. The coagulation of the blood had 
stopped the hemorrhage which might have proved 
fatal. Then, one by one, the events that had suc¬ 
ceeded each other so rapidly came back to his ob¬ 
scured mind. What had those wretches done? and 
how was it that he, their first victim, found him¬ 
self alive? A thin streak of moonlight filtered 
through the open window. Roland’s eyes wandered 
slowly around; the feeble light reflected on Sacha's 
pale face. In spite of the excruciating pain he 
felt at every movement, he dragged himself toward 
her. Mrs. Readish had not moved. Dead! she was 
dead! killed by whom? By him—he, Roland?—or 
by those men? He contemplated her, horror-strick- 


THE IVILLOlV CREEK TRAGEDY 


127 


en, asking himself if he were a murderer. But no, 
impossible! She could not have succumbed so 
quickly; that was improbable! A struggle of a few 
minutes, however fierce, does not end so tragically! 
A streak of blood stained Sacha’s livid cheeks; her 
two ears had been torn. Then only did the wounded 
man understand. No doubt the band of cowboys 
had entered the house, stolen the jewels, searched 
the travelers, and ransacked their baggage. One 
of them had torn out the pearls screwed in Sacha’s 
ears. Dead—dead! The brigands believed she had 
fainted, and were ignorant of the fact that this in¬ 
animate creature had ceased to live. So then, he, 
Roland, was the murderer! With the extreme lu¬ 
cidity of a feverish being, he recalled for the sec¬ 
ond time all the incidents of the evening. Stran¬ 
gled! He had strangled her! The young man felt 
such a violent moral shock, that for a moment he 
overcame his physical weakness. Slowly and pain¬ 
fully he leaned over the body of his victim, watch¬ 
ing for the vibration of a muscle or a nerve, a 
breath from the lips. Mrs. Readish lay stretched, 
half undressed, her breast uncovered. Roland 
placed his hand on her heart; it had ceased to 
beat. 

In withdrawing his hand, he felt a slight pain at 
the wrist, like the pricking of a needle. Then he 
saw a square envelope, fastened by double pins, to 
the bodice of the Russian. Instinctively, without 
even noticing what he did, Roland detached the 
pins and seized the envelope. What did it con¬ 
tain? Her last will, no doubt. He tore it open. 


128 


SUCH IS LIFE 


and gave a cry of amazement as he saw four bank¬ 
notes of 4,000 pounds sterling each. He held four 
hundred thousand francs in his trembling hand! 
A fortune picked up in blood—a fortune of which 
no one knew—and which had escaped the brigands 
by a miracle. He stood motionless, his arm ex¬ 
tended as if to ward off a horrible temptation. 
The struggle was rapid but atrocious. Twice 
Roland extended his hand to restitute this blood¬ 
stained money to the dead; twice the spirit of evil 
choked down the supreme revolt of his faltering 
honesty. At last, by a mechanical gesture, Roland 
reclosed the envelope and slipped it beneath his 
vest, securing it safely with the same pins Mrs. 
Readish had used. The young man’s heart beat as 
if it would burst his breast. He experienced the 
painful instinct of an irreparable degradation. A 
few hours previous he could carry his head erect, 
while accusing fate alone for his sufferings. Now 
he was a murderer and a thief ! But his strength 
gave way under this intense emotion; his eyes 
closed, and he fell into a profound prostration. 

Outside, nothing broke the silence of the night. 
The cowboys had disappeared, carrying their 
booty with them. The flames, fanned by a western 
wind, dotted the sky in large, red patches. In their 
flight the animals had dragged their half-con¬ 
sumed halters and set fire to the grass; a mile of 
prairie was in flames, surrounding the scene of des¬ 
olation with a sinister frame. 


XV 


THE HOSPITAL AT PIERRE 

“How do you feel, Monsieur?” said a sweet voice. 

Roland opened his eyes, coming out of his leth¬ 
argy for the first time. His feeble glance wan¬ 
dered around the room; it was a sad, commonplace 
hospital room, with whitewashed walls. 

“The physician assured us that you would re¬ 
cover consciousness—I did not dare believe it. 
What happiness to know you are saved—no, no, 
do not speak! It is forbidden.” 

Then a long and wearisome convalescence began. 
During long days that seemed without end, Roland 
forcibly remained motionless and silent. Silent, 
while tortured by an anxious and poignant curiosity! 
Little by little, he remembered everything. The 
violent scene that had occurred at the log-house 
and the tragic death of Mrs. Readish, came back to 
his mind with startling fidelity. But how had he 
come to the hospital? The young man was haunted 
by a burning thought. Were they aware that he 
was a criminal and a thief? When he left the 
hospital, cured, his life saved after that terrible ad¬ 
venture, would he be called to account for the mur¬ 
der committed, and the money stolen? A score, nay, 

9 129 


130 


SUCH IS LIFE 


a hundred times he tried to question Nelly, who 
was installed at his bedside since the first day; but 
she only shook her head with a smile, and refused 
to answer. Left to himself, Roland’s thoughts in¬ 
variably turned to the same subject. What should 
he say if questioned by a magistrate? This secret 
uneasiness lasted for a week; nevertheless, as the 
fever left him, the wounded man recovered his 
strength. Finally, one morning, Nelly appeared, 
more gay and cheerful than usual. 

“I see that you have slept well, Monsieur,” she 
said. "No more restrictions! Let us talk.” 

"Nelly—what has taken place?” 

The poor girl commenced the painful recital. At 
dawn the inhabitants of the log-house had returned, 
accompanied by a few ranchmen, who had come to 
their assistance. They found the dead body of 
Sacha and the wounded Roland. They interrogated 
everybody in the neighborhood, but Nelly alone 
could answer their questions. She related how the 
cowboys had attacked them, and how Roland had 
rushed to the rescue of his traveling companions. 
By the aid of this information, the coroner, who had 
been summoned from Pierre, easily reconstructed 
the drama. After a short fusillade, the brigands had 
invaded the house and robbed Nelly of her money 
and rare jewels. Fortunately, the young girl had 
not resisted. Mrs. Readish, on the contrary, had 
struggled and been murdered. One of the brigands 
had strangled her, and then profaned the body by 


THE HOSPITAL AT PIERRE 


131 


tearing the pearls from her ears. Roland at once 
became an interesting personage, for Americans 
love and respect courage. Everyone admired this 
young man who, in the defense of two women, had 
fought against twenty-five cowboys. A physician— 
German—of whom there are a great number in the 
Far West—authorized the transportation of the 
wounded man to. the hospital at Pierre. To remain 
in the log-cabin was sure death to Roland; to con¬ 
vey him to Pierre on a stretcher was a great risk, but 
there was a chance of saving him. Oh! what a 
long, wearisome, and perilous journey! Consumed 
by fever, the unfortunate young man remained 
plunged in a heavy and lethargic stupor, from 
which he scarcely awakened when they reached the 
hospital and renewed the bandages of his wound. 

As Nelly went on, Roland felt his uneasiness 
melting away. They suspected nothing, then! Mrs. 
Readish’s death was explained in a natural manner, 
since they accused the cowboys. Moreover, three of 
the latter had been captured by the ranchmen, and 
hanged to telegraph poles. Lynch-law reigns as 
supreme mistress in the Far West. The other 
bandits had disappeared, vanished in the vastness 
of the prairie. However, they suspected that a 
cowboy of French origin had taken refuge in Dead- 
wood. The conductor of the stage-coach was said to 
have recognized that individual, who had already 
been accused of cattle-stealing by the farmers. Of 
the money hidden in Mrs. Readish’s bodice, and 


132 


SUCH IS LIFE 


stolen by Roland, Nelly said not a word. The 
young girl, no doubt, was unaware that her mis¬ 
tress carried such a large sum of money. 

Four hundred thousand francs! Roland felt a 
cold sweat on his brow. What had become of the 
envelope? It was impossible to believe that it 
should be still pinned to his vest. It was folly to 
hope for such a miracle. “Rest now,” Nelly had 
said as she left him. Rest? What irony! The 
young man’s brain continually turned over the same 
poignant idea: “I am an assassin and a 

thief.” 

Then he tried to find an excuse, to invent an ex¬ 
planation of the psychological phenomenon which 
had suddenly transformed him—an honest man— 
into a criminal. He suffered less from being a mur¬ 
derer than from being a thief. In precipitating him¬ 
self on Mrs. Readish, Roland had not yielded to a 
premeditation of murder. It was merely a passion¬ 
ate impulse, the fury of a man defending himself. 
Had he any thought of strangling that woman? No, 
assuredly. He was protecting himself against her, 
and the victim was herself to blame. Roland had 
sufficient knowledge of physiology to know that a 
person in good health could not have died so quick¬ 
ly. Worn out by the use of morphine, and stupefied 
by whisky, Sacha must have succumbed to a conges¬ 
tion of the brain, brought on by the violent press¬ 
ure of his fingers on the neck. 

It was true, the murder might be excused; but 


THE HOSPITAL AT PIERRE 


133 


the rest? The wounded man tried to calm his 
conscience by argument. 

“I had the intention of stealing,” he said; ‘‘but 
I did not steal in reality. That money is not in 
my possession now; it must have been lost during the 
journey , or stolen by one of the me?i that carried the 
stretcher . I yielded to the temptation, it is true, 
but I was not master of my faculties. Sane in body 
and mind, I would not have done it. If the temp¬ 
tation overcame me, I am not responsible; and as 
I shall not profit by the irresponsible larceny; I am 
innocent.” And even as he soothed himself by this 
subtle reasoning, Roland shivered with fear, at 
the idea of losing the fruit of his theft! 

The hospital at Pierre is under the direction of 
Catholics, although Protestants are equally admit¬ 
ted. Condemned to long days of silence, the 
wounded man carefully observed all that passed 
around him. When, overcome by fatigue, Nelly re¬ 
tired for a few hours of rest, she was replaced by 
one of those nuns belonging to the order of Sainte 
Marthe, who go through the world accomplishing 
their sublime mission of charity. Roland resolved 
to take advantage of Nelly’s absence. 

"Sister,” he called in a feeble voice, one day 
during Nelly’s absence. 

A nun approached softly. 

"What is it, sir?” she asked. 

"I believe my clothes are hanging at the foot of 
the bed,” he said. "I am a little cold, and wish 


134 


SUCH IS LIFE 


you would spread my vest over the bedclothes.” 

The sister smiled. How could anyone be cold 
in the month of June, when it was so oppressively 
hot? But thinking it was only the whim of a sick 
person, she obeyed the request, and left him to him¬ 
self. 

At last he would know! He raised himself and 
extended his trembling hand—his fingers seized 
the edge of the vest and he drew it toward him. 
Miracle! the envelope was in the same place! The 
young man felt the crisp bank-notes. Rich! rich! 
he was rich! Roland closed his eyes, exhausted by 
the moral emotion rather than by the physical 
effort. And soon he fell into a profound sleep—a 
sweet slumber peopled by delicious dreams. Not 
one impulse of remorse, not one ray of repentance. 
This crushed being had worn out all his conscience 
in the formidable struggle for existence. He no 
longer considered himself an assassin and a thief. 
He became the audacious adventurer who has taken 
his revenge. 


XVI 


I SHALL LEAVE NOTHING TO CHANCE 

The attack on the log-house, Mrs. Readish’s 
tragic death, and Roland’s energetic defense, pro¬ 
duced a great sensation in the United States. The 
newspapers immediately sent reporters to Pierre 
to interview the hero. Had the young man pos¬ 
sessed more vanity, he might have made himself 
quite famous by embellishing his adventure; but 
he had no wish to draw public attention on himself, 
and preferred to assume a modest role. This pru¬ 
dent reserve had, as usual, an enormous success. 

One morning Mr. Clark, a business man from 
New York, presented himself to the director of the 
hospital at Pierre. 

"Monsieur,” said he, "I have been sent here by 
Mrs. Readish’s family. The poor woman leaves, 
by her first marriage, a daughter who is her sole 
heir. This child’s guardian has decided that a sum 
of two thousand dollars should be offered to M. 
Roland Salbert, as indemnity. As to Miss Nelly, 
Mrs. Readish’s daughter wishes her to enter her 
service.” 

Mr. Clark was conducted into the garden where 
Roland, now almost entirely recovered, was walk- 
135 


13C 


SUCH IS LIFE 


ing up and down, supported by Nelly’s arm. This 
double proposition was'received with joy. Nelly, 
who had feared to find herself without a place, 
grasped eagerly at this new hope; and Roland saw 
in this sum of ten thousand francs, given to Sacha’s 
protector by her family, the means of returning to 
France and executing the second part of his plan. 

"You accept, then, Mademoiselle," said Mr. Clark. 
"Very well ! I leave to-morrow for New York, and 
you may accompany me." 

But Nelly urged and easily obtained a few days 
of respite, claiming that she could not leave her 
patient before he had entirely recovered. 

"It is only natural," said Mr. Clark; "Monsieur 
may then escort you to New York, as he must go 
there to embark for France. I shall expect you a 
week from to-day at my office, 213 Broadway.” 

This last week glided away quickly. Roland was 
regaining his strength with each day, and Nelly 
now scarcely recognized the cold and sad companion 
of other days. She could not explain the change. 

His face, hitherto so gloomy and dejected, now 
expressed a peaceful' ardor; he who had always been 
so silent and reticent was becoming expansive and 
confiding. In their long drives around the town, 
he spoke of his old life, of his father’s ruin, and his 
courageous struggle against fate. And as he loved 
to dwell on his fraternal souvenirs, he told her of his 
sister, that adorable sister whom he would again 
see before many days. Nelly listened with a re- 


/ SHALL LEAVE NOTHING TO CHANCE 


13 ? 


spect mingled with an unconscious tenderness. This 
pretty girl sighed in secret, when she remembered 
her humble condition as a servant. To her, Ro¬ 
land was handsome and charming as a hero of ro¬ 
mance. She knew him to be good and generous; 
for had he not defended and protected her from the 
fury of her former mistress? 

On the day of departure, thirty young men of the 
town escorted the “daring adversary of the cow¬ 
boys” to the railway station. They gave vent to 
several vigorous “Hip! hips,” as the train moved 
away; and Roland felt a thrill of delight at the first 
movement of the wheels that brought him nearer to 
France. Ten times a day he slipped his hand un¬ 
der his vest to feel the precious envelope crackling 
under his fingers. Ten times a day he would whis¬ 
per softly to himself, “I am rich! I am rich!" 

As soon as he reached New York, he hastened to 
secure his passage on one of the English steamers 
of the Cunard Line. As his friends expressed sur¬ 
prise that a Frenchman should land in England, and 
not sail direct for Havre, he simply replied that he 
was called to London on urgent business. Poor 
Nelly wept bitterly when she saw this new friend, 
whom she loved so much, going away, no doubt for¬ 
ever. She accompanied Roland to the steamer, and 
did not leave him until the captain ordered every¬ 
body ashore. 

Roland was alone at last, alone with himself, 
overjoyed to escape observation, to be free from the 


IBB 


SUCH IS LIFE 


fear of being watched. During the long days of 
the voyage, he thought over and matured his plans. 

"I am now rich. Very well. I have at last at¬ 
tained the object I have so long pursued. But how 
will I explain the origin of this sudden fortune?” 

He spent many hours leaning over the railing, his 
dreamy eyes following the furrow plowed by the 
steamer in the billows of the green ocean. What a 
strange destiny was his! While he had tried to con¬ 
quer fortune by honest means, he had met but failures 
and rebuffs. To escape from his slavery, to drag him¬ 
self from that abyss of misery, he had been forced 
to violate chance. And he, born upright, loyal, and 
courageous, he who had such lofty aspirations, was 
now returning to his native land metamorphosed 
into an assassin and a thief! "But how is it that I 
feel no remorse?” he asked himself. And fragments 
of his philosophical studies of other days came back 
to his memory. Is it not Th. Ribot who said: Tf 
we persist in making a cause of conscience, all re¬ 
mains obscure; if we consider it as the simple ac¬ 
companiment of a nervous processus —all becomes 
clear." 

“No, I am not an assassin,” continued Roland to 
himself; "neither am I a thief. There was no pre¬ 
meditation. M)' will underwent a weakening, a 
momentary depression. Am I then responsible? 
I remember examples cited by Ribot and Fouill£e 
in their studies on mental diseases. In certain be¬ 
ings, the over-excitation of motive forces is such, 


1 SHALL LEAVE NOTHING TO CHANCE 


189 


that they walk on for hours without stopping, with¬ 
out looking around them, like mechanical appa¬ 
ratuses that are wound up. Admitted. But the 
fault commences where the damage to my neighbor 
begins. And Mrs. Readish having left a daughter, 
I wrong that child by robbing her of some of her 
inheritance. That is what I should say to myself 
if I still believed in conscience. Conscience! Tt is 
not the state of conscience, as such, but it is the 
corresponding physiological state, which is trans¬ 
formed into an act.’ Since everybody is in igno¬ 
rance of the fact that the dead woman possessed 
these four hidden bank-notes, then, it was only a 
forced loan. I shall make my fortune, and when I 
become a millionaire I can easily reimburse this 
borrowed money.” 

Thus, by a subtlety of reasoning, he tried to 
prove to himself that he was not a thief, after hav¬ 
ing tried to prove that he was not an assassin. As 
ne felt no remorse, he persuaded himself that he 
should not feel any. The unfortunate man did not 
understand that he was nearing that state observed by 
savants, and which they call “psychical paralysis.” 
It is a kind of moral paroxysm, which is but one of 
the forms of intense nervousness. The frightful 
struggle fought by Roland, the frenzied combat 
against misfortune for so many months, had resulted 
in breaking down his will. And without the will, 
which is the cause, there is no conscience, which is the 
effect. 


140 


SUCH IS LIFE 


On the ninth day after his departure from New 
York, the steamship reached port, and Montfranchet 
reached London that night. The next day he pre¬ 
sented one of the four notes at the bank. He in¬ 
tended to present the second in Paris, the third in 
Rome, and the fourth in Berlin, with an interval of 
three months between each of these operations. He 
was more determined than ever to use prudence, and 
leave nothing to chance. 



XVII 


THE LOTTERY TICKET 

“Yes, I know you are very uneasy, my poor Alice. 
Roland promised to write, but since his departure 
we have not received a single letter or message.” 

Madame Duseigneur—this was now Mademoiselle 
Montfranchet’s name—shook her head sadly. 

“I do not blame my brother,” she replied; “I am 
as sure of his affection as he is of mine. But his 
silence is inexplicable. If he should be ill over 
there, in those deserts of the Far West! ” 

The Parisian newspapers had, a few weeks since, 
given a graphic account of Roland’s thrilling ad¬ 
venture, and Mrs. Readish’s tragic death. But 
poor and saving workers like Alice and Aristide 
do not read newspapers. Lost in the midst of a 
throng, knowing no one, they could not casually 
learn what interested them so greatly. But the 
brain of the young woman was busy; without exag¬ 
gerating anything, she apprehended a calamity. 
Certainly Roland must be ill—very ill; otherwise 
he.would have written. 

This evening—a Saturday in July—Alice felt more 
nervous and dejected than usual. It seemed to her 
that she was about to hear of a sudden misfortune. 
All at once she started up. 

141 


142 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"Listen, Aristide,” she cried; "somebody is com¬ 
ing up the last stairway; it must be someone for 
us. ” 

The footsteps came nearer; a strong and joyous 
voice called: 

"Alice! Alice!” 

The young woman arose, pale and trembling. 

"Roland!-^-it is Roland’s voice!” she cried, 
gladly. 

It was indeed he. When she perceived her 
brother, she gave a cry of delight, and threw herself 
into his open arms. When she had covered him 
with kisses and overwhelmed him with caresses, 
she forced him into a chair, and knelt before him. 

"You!—it is you!” she repeated; "you come 
when I had almost despaired of ever seeing you 
again! I believed you were dead—disappeared in 
the mournful solitudes of that terrible country. I 
must look at you—prove to myself that I am not 
dreaming. If you only knew how unhappy I 
was! ” 

The young man had to relate all the events of 
his voyage, since his departure from Paris. He 
was not allowed to omit a single detail. How 
changed he was to the eyes of his sister and brother- 
in-law! The hopeless being who had fled from his 
country a few months before, his heart full of dis¬ 
gust, now returned, happy and hopeful for the 
future 

"Just think, my little Alice, I am the possessor 


THE LOTTERY TICKET 


143 


of ten thousand francs! Oh! everything will suc¬ 
ceed now, I am sure.” 

“Ten thousand francs that cost you very dearly,” 
she interposed. 

“Do bring her to reason, my dear Aristide,” 
laughed Roland; “a bullet in the shoulder is not a 
very serious wound.” 

“But if you had died?” 

“But since I am still alivei he retorted. 

He had to go over the dramatic recital for the 
second time. His sister never wearied of listening 
to him. What a frightful creature that Mrs. 
Readish must have been! 

‘AlPs well that ends well,” concluded Aristide, 
“you see, Alice, that you were wrong in being 
frightened beforehand. Our brother is quite 
right; he had rolled to the bottom of the abyss. 
Without being discouraged, he struggled valiantly, 
and here he is now, victorious.” 

As in the days of their misfortune, these three 
beings, united by a common affection, talked of 
the future until a late hour. The next day was 
Sunday; Aristide and Alice were free, and what 
projects they did build up! They would spend this 
holiday in the country, wandering through the 
woods, and on Monday Roland would begin his 
search for a position. He would go and see that 
faithful friend, Rene Salverte; and since the 
searcher could now await, every door would be 
open to him. Nevertheless, this visit to Ren6 


144 


SUCH IS LIFE 


troubled Roland. What news had his friend re¬ 
ceived from America? 

Sunday glided away gayly. The three young 
people revisited the scenes of their excursion dur¬ 
ing the first days of spring in the preceding year. 
But to-day they were happy and light-hearted, and 
not oppressed by the anxieties of those sad days. 

“This is where you betrothed us, my dear Roland,” 
said Aristide, with a happy laugh. “So, after 
Alice, it is to you that I owe the happiness of my 
life. ” 

A very humble happiness! and it would have 
brought a smile of pity to the lips of the fortunate 
ones of this world. But the happiness of simple 
souls is like a spring of fresh water, which only 
quenches the thirst of healthy stomachs. In the 
evening, as they, returned homeward, Alice linked 
her arm into her brother’s. 

“Do you remember,” said she, “we were returning 
home, as we are now, and we found a letter slipped 
under the door. An anonymous debtor was restitut¬ 
ing fifteen hundred francs, which he said he had 
formerly borrowed from our poor father. And you 
believed it, and even I believed it. You never 
dreamed that the pretended debtor was named Aris¬ 
tide Duseigneur! ” 

For the first time since his crime, Roland felt a 
painful throbbing of the heart. 

“I was once good and generous like that," he said 
to himself, bitterly; then, making a gesture of 


THE LOTTERY TICKET 


145 


^er and defiance, he added: “Bah! and what 
/!d. I gain by it? When I was like that I was 
scorned by everyone ! while now—" 

Shortly before noon the next day, Roland pre¬ 
sented himself at Rene Salverte’s office. 

“You! at last! ” cried his friend delightedly. “You 
can never imagine what a sensation your adventure 
produced. Even my father admires you now; 
and you know father, eh? Think of him admiring 
anyone—that is astonishing, to put it mildly! But 
the truth is, I am proud of being your friend, for, 
my dear fellow, you simply acted like a hero." 

“Pray do not jest,” replied Roland quietly. “It 
is to you that I owe my present circumstances, for 
I now have the means of waiting. Thank heavens! 
I am not compelled to do any kind of drudgery to 
keep from starvation.” 

“You will not have long to wait, ” said Rene. “It 
is always the same story, parbleu! people in need 
never inspire confidence. I have found you a splen¬ 
did position; but let us go and breakfast together, 
and I will tell you all aboht it.” 

Roland insisted on taking his friend to the Cafe 
Anglais, as on the day of their first meeting. Since 
his return, he delighted in reviving those recollec¬ 
tions, as if he tasted a bitter pleasure in evoking 
those by-gone days. 

“Now listen,” said Rene. “A friend of mine has 
just bought out a stock-broker’s business. He will 
take you with him, and promises to eive you an 
Such is Life 10 


146 


SUCH IS LIFE 


interest in his business in a few months, and you 
will receive a salary of six thousand francs to 
begin with. Is that good enough? No, do not 
thank me; you owe this brilliant opening to your¬ 
self only. When the newspapers related your ex¬ 
ploits against the cowboys in the Far West, my 
friend, George Davril, at once became an ardent ad¬ 
mirer of yours. I praised your talents and merits 
highly, but carefully concealed your poverty, al¬ 
though honorable in my eyes. You can guess the 
rest. George Davril takes possession on the first 
day of September; until then you may rest from 
your fatigues. You certainly deserve it.” 

From that day a new existence opened before 
Roland. During this month of vacation he built 
up many fantastic plans to account for the pos¬ 
session of four hundred thousand francs. Certainly 
his new position would aid the supposition of many 
imaginary sources of profit. But to improvise a 
whole fortune, it requires one of those strokes on 
the Bourse, which suddenly enrich some, and 
ruin others. Having resolv edto change nothing 
in his mode of existence, he continued to live as 
simply and modestly as in the past. Every morn¬ 
ing he was the first to reach the broker’s office, Rue 
Louis le Grand, and worked assiduously until five 
o’clock in the afternoon. His employers and col¬ 
leagues loved and esteemed him for the gayety of 
his nature, his enthusiasm in business, and the 
daily services he rendered everybody around him. 


THE LOTTERY TICKET 


147 


But under this inexhaustible good humor, Roland 
concealed a secret impatience that devoured him. 
“Was he to be reduced to the necessity of keeping 
such a large amount of money unproductive?’ 

In November he adroitly succeeded in ridding 
himself of two of his bank-notes. An Englishman 
presented a draft on M. Davril for two hundred 
thousand francs. Roland retained the two hundred 
notes confided to him by the cashier, and remitted 
instead two of his own notes to the client. Mont- 
franchet thus exchanged three-quarters of the sum 
robbed from Mrs. Readish, and hid it mysteriously, 
with the rapacity of a miser. But he watched in 
vain for the opportunity that would permit him 
to throw off his mask. And it was not until the 
beginning of the next year that the occasion pre¬ 
sented itself. One morning, on his way to the 
office, Roland, by chance, bought one of those little 
newspapers which make a specialty of sensational 
news. The first article that met his eye was as 
follows: 

“The day before yesterday we published a list of 
the lucky numbers in the Loterie Beylicale. No. 
723,506, which won the capital prize of three hun¬ 
dred thousand francs, is held by a poor woman of 
Fontenay-sous-Bois, Madame Veuve Tronchot. Un¬ 
fortunately, she is suffering from rheumatism, and 
is unable to leave her bed. She has not yet pre¬ 
sented the precious ticket at the Banque de 
France, where the funds are deposited.” 


148 


SUCH IS LIFE 


These lines struck Roland. Why not profit by 
hazard? Early next day, M. Montfranchet called 
at the lottery office and secured official proof of the 
authenticity of the newspaper’s statement. Then he 
patiently awaited Sunday. On that day he was 
free—free of his time and actions. 

He left for Fontenay by one of the first trains, 
and at about ten o’clock he stood before Madame 
Tronchot’s door. In fact, this aged and infirm 
woman could not leave the bed on which she lay, 
tortured by atrocious suffering. Roland found him¬ 
self face to face with one of those suspicious and 
shrewd peasants who fear their neighbor and dis¬ 
trust strangers. 

“Madame,” said he, "I am sent by the Directors 
of the Loterie Beylicale, to ascertain if No. 723,506 
was really issued to you.” 

Madame Tronchot, who saw a thief in everybody, 
since she knew she possessed a fortune, at first 
scarcely dared to answer, but looked at the stranger 
with idiotic terror. However, Roland was not the 
man to allow himself to be troubled by so little. 

“We have learned,” he continued, quietly, “that 
you could not come and draw the money yourself, 
so I have brought it with me.” 

As he spoke, he drew out a pocket-book filled to 
bursting with bank-notes. The old woman opened 
her stupid eyes, slowly intoxicated by the sight of 
these three hundred bank-notes piled before her. 
Her distrust melted away; she stretched out her 


THE LOTTERY TICKET 


149 


trembling fingers eagerly, yet scarcely daring to 
touch those precious papers, and muttered: 

"Mine! mine! all mine!” 

Then the instinct of ownership took the ascend¬ 
ancy. She had to count the bank-notes three times 
over before remitting the lucky ticket to Roland, 
and then she did so with a vague apprehension. 

An hour later the young man was back in Paris. 

At last! he could enjoy this hidden money in full 
daylight, in the face of all the world. He could 
give now a very natural explanation of his sudden¬ 
ly acquired wealth: a lottery ticket, bought at haz¬ 
ard, had drawn the capital prize; it was not a com¬ 
mon occurrence, but it was not improbable. The 
same newspaper which, a few days previous, had 
published Madame Tronchot’s good luck, would 
contradict their first announcement, and that would 
be all. The three hundred thousand francs, reim¬ 
bursed by the lottery company, Roland would di¬ 
vide into two parts: one for his sister, the other 

• 

for himself. With an income of six thousand francs 
and her husband’s salary, Alice would be perfectly 
happy. As to himself, he would speculate on his 
own account, backed by a capital of two hundred 
and fifty thousand francs. All these dreams flitted 
through his over-excited brain. In life, he no 
longer saw anything but money. He had so often 
execrated his misery and cursed his fate, that he 
had come out of the struggle a changed being. He 
now felt as much faith in his star as he had hith- 


150 


SL'LH IS LIFE 


erto distrusted it. What would now be wanting to 
his success? Nothing. Scruples, honesty, con¬ 
science, all that lay in a corner, in the depths of 
an American cemetery, under the tombstone where 
Mrs. Readish slept her last sleep. No more timid¬ 
ity, no more restraint, no more paltry hesitations. 
Roland wanted to go far and ascend high. Why 
should he not become one of the happy ones, one 
of the powerful beings of this world, one of those 
who lead society by the weight of their millions? 

He had combated fiercely against fate. So much 
the w'orse for that woman. Ah! Paris had hitherto 
scorned poor, humble, and honest Roland Salbert; 
it would now bow down before Roland Mont- 
franchet, the criminal, thief, and millionaire. With 
impunity, the psychical paralysis of this man in¬ 
creased. He continued to feel neither remorse nor 
repentance, and walked cheerfully toward the future 
without seeing the specter of his victim that 
grinned in the past. 


PART SECOND—LOVE 


“A guilty person after the crime may be indifferent as to the 
terrible nature of the act. Accomplished in a moment when the agent 
was not laster of himself, the act is no more his than his paroxysm 
is the effect of his will.”— H. Mauds ley. 


I 

THE DfiBUT 

“I believe M. Sorbier knows the history of the 
debutante,” said Madame de Ganges, turning to¬ 
ward the back of the box. 

Mrs. Maud Vivian, a pretty English woman, who 
was seated in front of the young man, smiled 
archly. 

“Oh! ” she cried, "I imagine he is well acquainted 
with the history of all the debutantes in Paris.” 

“My dear ladies,” replied Edmond Sorbier, with 
a smile, “you calumniate me without cause, and 
you will pay for your wickedness, I warn you. I 
only know what I was told at the club before din¬ 
ner. Madame Salbert, who makes her first appear¬ 
ance this evening at the Opera, is by no means 
the heroine of a romance. To begin with, she is 
married; then, she is rich. She is the sister of 
Montfranchet. ” 


151 



152 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“Montfranchet, the banker?” 

“The same.” 

“Incredible! how can a man who rolls in millions 
allow his sister to become a strolling actress?” ex¬ 
claimed his companions. 

“You are very severe,” replied the young man. 
“Do you not consider the love of the art as some¬ 
thing? Besides, members of the Opera never become 
strollers. But allow me to finish my story. You 
know, or rather you do not know, that the debutante 
and her brother are the children of the celebrated 
Montfranchet, who, in his time, was a power. The 
son has followed in his father’s footsteps. In five 
years he has amassed a colossal fortune. During 
this time, the daughter, who, it seems, is gifted with 
a superb voice, has been taking lessons at the Con¬ 
servatory. She took all the prizes there, and then 
went to Italy, where she has already achieved many 
triumphs." 

“Was she married there?” 

“No, indeed. She married a modest clerk at the 
City Hall." 

“How grotesque! Actresses should be prohibited 
from marrying in real life.” 

“Oh! with the divorce—” 

The curtain was going up, and a silence now fell 
on the audience. Alice had chosen the role of Mar¬ 
guerite for her debut. As she appeared, a thrill of 
delight passed over the assemblage—the beauty of 
the young woman was producing its usual effect. 


THE DEBUT 


158 


At twenty-eight, Madame Duseigneur was dazzling. 
Happiness and success had given this superb creat¬ 
ure an extraordinary eclat. One cannot live in com¬ 
munion of thought with the great masters with im¬ 
punity; the soul is always elevated by contact with 
sublime artists. Alice’s brilliant intelligence had 
been still more developed by these five years of daily 
study. An ardent flame lighted up her gray eyes, 
and she possessed a charming grace that command¬ 
ed sympathy and respect. Even in the midst of 
the promiscuous crowd behind the scenes, she re¬ 
mained herself—the proud young woman who 
soared above the vulgarities of the throng. 

Marguerite, with a missal in her hand, walked 
slowly toward the church; Faust approached her, 
and bowed. When Alice stopped to hurl at him 
the famous phrase: “No, my lord; not a lady am I, 
nor yet a beauty ,” there was a moment of hesitation 
in that spontaneous burst of enthusiasm, which 
draws the public to the debutante. Each asked him¬ 
self if the artist would be worthy of the woman. 
But when Madame Salbert had sung that exquisite 
phrase that preludes her role; when that pure, rich, 
harmonious voice was heard, the enthusiasm burst 
forth. From act to act, the success grew, and as¬ 
sumed the proportions of a musical event—it be¬ 
came one of those overpowering successes that 
in an instant transform 1 : an nknown in^c a celeb 
rity. 

After the churcb scene. Rolan “ J s box was besieger 


154 


SUCH IS LIFE 


by admirers, who hastened to congratulate him on 
his sister’s success. 

“What talent! It is marvelous!" was repeated 
in every tone, with the exasperating servility of 
worldly compliments. 

Roland was annoyed, and replied nervously, with 
the ill-disguised impatience of a man who is im¬ 
portuned. He was anxious to join Alice behind the 
scene, and could not bear to be delayed. 

M. Montfranchet had changed greatly in those 
five years. Success and wealth gave to his mascu¬ 
line beauty a firmness it had formerly lacked. His 
blue eyes expressed an intensity of repressed feel¬ 
ing, and sometimes, when fixed, they surprised the 
beholder by their look of steel—so hard and ener¬ 
getic. The miraculous good fortune that accom¬ 
panied him in all his enterprises excited astonish¬ 
ment rather than envy. Industry is respected in 
Paris, and no one could ignore the fact that the 
banker worked with feverish persistency. More¬ 
over, his noble generosity, his constant courtesy, 
and the good-fellowship he carefully maintained 
with his friends of all nationalities, were appreciated 
by all. 

Roland was approaching the passage that leads 
to the green-room,, when Ren£ Salverte came out of 
the orchestra circle. 

“Well! I suppose you are happy?" he cried. 

"Yes, very happy indeed,” replied Roland. 


THE DEBUT 


155 


"Parbleu! neither you nor I can ever hope for a 
similar triumph.” 

‘‘Will you come with me?” asked Roland. 

‘‘Of course! I want to repeat to your charming 
sister all I have heard around me.” 

Alice’s loge was also crowded: encumbered by 
the inevitable followers of success who are the wor¬ 
shipers of every new star. When Roland appeared 
the praises redoubled; then understanding that the 
brother and sister wished to be alone for a few min¬ 
utes, they discreetly withdrew one by one. 

‘‘I am going to remain,” laughed Ren6;“ I don’t 
count! ” 

The young woman was radiant with delight, and 
throwing herself into Roland’s arms, she murmured: 

‘‘Are you pleased with me?” 

‘‘More than pleased; very proud,” he answered. 
"You sang like a great artist and acted to perfec¬ 
tion. Only, in the future do not abandon yourself 
with so much passion to the public. You will kill 
yourself, my poor child. But where is Aristide?” 

"He would not stay, saying his presence made me 
ridiculous," said Alice, smiling. "The poor fellow 
must be hidden in some dark corner.” 

"You will find my carriage at the door," said 
Roland. "We three must finish this unique even¬ 
ing together." 

"We four, if you please,” interrupted Rene. "Since 
you are to take supper with your sister and brother- 
in-law, I hope you will tolerate my presence also.” 


166 


SUCH IS LIFE 


A faint knock at the door cut short the idle talk 
of the Parisian. 

“Another tiresome person,” muttered Roland im¬ 
patiently. 

“Go and see who it is, Helene,” said Alice to 
her maid; “I receive no one.” 

“Not even me?” said a sweet, fresh voice: the 
voice of a young girl that charmed at once by its 
melody. Alice gave a cry of delight and rushed 
toward the new-comer with open arms. 

“You! you! my dear Florence? But how do you 
come to be in Paris?” 

“Explain at once to your brother,” said the young 
girl, blushing, “for Monsieur is your brother, I am 
sure; I recognized him at a glance. Explain to him 
that I am an orphan and an American, or he will be 
shocked to see me running about the world with 
a maid for my only companion.” 

Alice laughed heartily, and went through a cere¬ 
monious presentation: 

1 My dear friend, my brother M. Roland Montfran- 
chet; Roland, my friend Miss Florence Sid¬ 
ney. ” 

But Roland did not seem at all shocked; this 
stranger bewitched him at once, at the very first 
glance. Before he had time to answer, however, the 

call-boy came t6 notify Madame Salbert that the 

« 

ballet was almost over. 

“I must dismiss you now, my dear friends,” said 
Alice. “It is understood, Ren£, you will take supper 


THE DEBUT 


157 


with us, and you also, my dear Florence. We must 
finish the evening as pleasantly as it began.” 

“I accept,” replied the young girl. “Monsieur 
your brother will be kind enough to come for me at 
the amphitheater and conduct me to your carriage. ” 

When the curtain fell on the superb trio of the 
prison scene, thunders of applause resounded through 
the house. Paris proclaimed the debutante a great 
artist. The golden dreams of other days were at 
last realized! Roland looked down upon his fellow- 
men from the height of his millions, and Alice by 
her talent had gained the admiration of the mul¬ 
titude. 

As she donned her street dress, the young woman 
rapidly evoked the days of their poverty. How far 
away now seemed that time of suffering! When 
her brother reappeared, she again threw herself into 
his arms, and whispered into his ear, “Who would 
have thought this long ago?” Then, after a moment 
of silence, she added aloud: 

“I will take Florence with me, and you may re¬ 
join us by and by in my apartments.” 

As soon as fortune began to smile on him, Roland 
purchased, near the Arc de Triomphe, one of those 
pompous mansions that we see springing up from 
the ground as if at the touch of a fairy wand. The 
fence, with its pointed arrows, ran along the Avenue 
Friedland, and opened on a large graveled court-yard. 
Passing through a gracefully designed archway s 
one entered a carefully kept garden, separated by 


158 


SUCH IS LIFE 


a curtain of trembling aspen trees from the famous 
park that Prince P—had hewed out in the very heart 
of Paris. The house faced this garden, and from the 
avenue little else than the stables was visible. This 
little palace had been constructed by an architect 
of mediocre taste, who had not attempted to invent 
anything new in the design. Two heavy wings, in 
the form of square pavilions, flanked a center build¬ 
ing of more graceful proportions, which was in the 
style of those elegant Florentine mansions. Aristide 
and his wife occupied the left wing, and Roland the 
right. In the center building were the reception- 
rooms, and an immense library filled with rare vol¬ 
umes bound in Levant morocco, notably the first 
edition of all Moliere’s comedies. 

Back of the library was a gallery of paintings of 
the modern school exclusively. Among thirty master¬ 
pieces, were a forest scene by Corot, bright and 
vaporous as a spring dream; a woman’s head of in¬ 
comparable power, by Elie Delaunay: the “Bataille 
de Forbach, ” by Detaille, and beside it an allegory by 
Luc Olivier Merson; between “A Sailor’s Home” by 
Dagnan Bouveret, and the "Sultane au Repos,” by 
Gervex, hung the celebrated “Agar au Desert" by 
Cazin. The portrait of Roland, by Paul Dupois, 
stood out, dark and striking, between a marble statue 
of Merci6 and a terra-cotta by Saint-Marceaux. 

Supper awaited the guests in Alice’s apartments. 

At one o’clock in the morning they were united, 
with smiles on their lips and joy in their eyes. But 


THE DEBUT 


150 


the most exuberant amongst them was Aristide. He 
had so long admired his wife’s talent, that Alice’s 
triumph did not astonish him. No; he felt a more 
delicate and unselfish sentiment. He knew what 
an artistic fire burned within the heart of this adored 
creature. A failure would have been the most 
cruel of misfortunes to her. Acclaimed by all, 
envied, celebrated, life was opening bright and 
smiling before the singer. 

While Aristide overlooked the preparations for 
supper, Roland was listening to Miss Florence’s 
account of her first meeting with Alice in Rome. 
One evening the United States Minister had in¬ 
vited a number of Americans to meet Madame Sal- 
bert, who had just made her appearance in Lucia; 
and the two women had been attracted to each other 
at once. Florence admired and loved the great singer, 
and Alice was drawn by a sudden S3 r mpathy toward 
the young girl who was so rich in money and so poor 
in affections. This pretty American, refined and 
witty as a woman of the North, pleased everyone 
at first sight by her sweet and gentle manner. Flor¬ 
ence at nineteen looked still younger. Tall, slen¬ 
der, and graceful, with rosy cheeks, she strangely 
recalled the Ottilia of Goethe, whose calm, deep, 
and tender blue eyes she possessed. And what beau¬ 
tiful blonde hair was hers! The golden tresses of 
a young goddess, sparkling with the varied reflec¬ 
tions of burned topaz. This charming girl seemed 
above all human vulgarities; her glance, her gestures, 


160 


SUCH IS LIFE 


her words, emitted a serene and smiling chastity 

Hers was one of those superior natures that life 
does not impress, or they never accept its brutaj 
realities. 

“But why don’t you talk?” she said, suddenly, 
with a gay laugh. “You are doing nothing, and 
leave me to do all the chatting. That is not right.” 

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle,” said Roland, who waa 
charmed by her sweet voice, “but it is a real artisti( 
pleasure to listen to you. Keep on, I beg of you; 
speak of yourself, of my sister. It seems to me that 
I am no stranger to you, and I feel as if I had known 
you for a long time." 

“What you say is very flattering! ” she replied, 
“My dear Alice’s brother cannot be anything but 
my friend. I wish I were a coquette, that I might 
interest and amuse you.” 

“Coquette! What woman is entirely destitute of 
that quality? And yet there is something peculiar 
in you; you are so different from the young girls 
of to-day.” 

Alice now interrupted the conversation; supper was 
ready. Apropos of this triumphant evening, Florence 
recalled Alice’s successes in Rome. The young 
American had not intended coming to Paris until 
spring, but learning from the newspapers that her 
friend would soon.make her d6but at the Opera, 
she could not resist the temptation of being present 
on that occasion. Rene amused herself by teasing 
Aristide. The Parisian would not admit that the 


THE DEBUT 


161 


husband of such a celebrated woman should so obsti¬ 
nately remain in the shade. Duseigneur laughed, 
and replied with his habitual modesty: 

“I tell you, I would make her ridiculous! I can 
already hear everybody’s flattering words. What 
an admirable artist is Madame Salbert! And is she 
married? Really! Who is her husband? A prince 
or a duke, no doubt. Not at all; he is—employed 
at the City Hall !” 

He said all this in such a droll way that the whole 
party burst into peals of merry laughter. 

“Liugh away, my good friends,” continued the 
imperturbable Aristide. ‘‘I intend to divide my 
life into two parts. It pleases me to be the husband 
of Alice, and not the husband of Madame Salbert, 
the celebrated artist. The latter belongs to her 
art and to the public; the former belongs to me. 
You admire the inspired singer; I love the deli¬ 
cious wife. You have her genius; I have her heart: 
my share is the best—I will keep it.” 

And he was quite right! For five years these two 
beings had lived in an atmosphere of perfect happi¬ 
ness. Their love, born in misery, had grown with 
their good fortune. They were going through life 
sure of each other’s sympathy, fortified by the solid 
affection that linked them together. Why should 
they regret being child/ess? They sufficed each 
other, since they had mad® pn ideal world of their 
united existence 
Such is Life 


162 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"Why do you not marry?” Alice often said to her 
brother. "See how happy we are!” 

"Find me a woman like you, and I will marry 
her at once,” he would reply. 

The rest of that evening the eyes of Roland never 
left Miss Florence, and the young girl, timid and 
embarrassed, blushed under their burning gaze. 
Would it not be the greatest of all blessings to be 
loved by this exquisite creature? 


II 


THE COTTAGE AT PASSY 

Contrary to the habits of her compatriots, Miss 
Florence disliked hotels. Usually, the American 
is happy in these large caravansaries, which for him 
replace the “home, sweet home,” so dear to the 
English. The young girl was guided by the poetic 
instincts of her nature which impelled her to fly 
from vulgar associations. On her arrival in Paris, 
she adroitly avoided tumult and agitation. Chance 
served her admirably; she found a cottage at Passy, 
surrounded by a pretty garden. This cottage, it is 
true, was horribly furnished, in the latest style of 
vulgar taste; but a refined and intelligent woman 
soon transforms whatever displeases her. In a few 
days Miss Florence had replaced the vulgar furni¬ 
ture and gaudy hangings. On entering, the visitor 
at once felt an impression of elegance and comfort. 
A well-lighted hall divided the ground floor; and 
the little parlor at its right was filled with flowers 
and shrubbery. This was where the young girl 
spent her days between her ride in the morning and 
her carriage drive in the evening. Around her 
were her loved scores and favorite objects of art: 
a reduced torso of Belvedere, a long piano, a few 

163 


164 


SUCH IS LIFE 


paintings by the great masters, and a little library 
containing her favorite writers and poets. 

Two days after his first meeting with Florence, 
Roland called at her home. Forty-eight hours had 
sufficed to conquer his rebellious heart. As far as 
he searched back into his past life, M. Montfranchet 
could discover nothing that resembled love—a few 
fugitive fancies at Bordeaux, in his early youth, 
but nothing more. And since then, the bitter anx¬ 
ieties of existence, the ever-recommencing struggle, 
had inevitably turned him from women. Finally 
he had become powerfully rich without changing 
anything in his regular and laborious life. His 
distractions were those of a man of the world, who 
controls his emotions and is sparing of his pleas¬ 
ures. And behold suddenly the image of Florence 
implanted itself supreme in this virgin heart, with¬ 
out even an attempt to struggle against the new 
sentiment that dominated it. 

The young girl did not try to conceal her pleas- 
ure on seeing her friend’s brother. 

"What an agreeable surprise,” she said, smiling 
sweetly. "Take this seat near me, and let us have 
a quiet chat, since you affirm that I do not bore you 
too much.” 

Outside of the tender emotion that she inspired 
in him, Florence interested Roland greatly. Many 
things were inexplicable and unexplained in the 
life of the orphan. It was easy to perceive that 
she did not like to evoke the recollections of her 


THE COTTAGE AT PASSY 


165 


childhood. What she told of it could be summed 
up in a few general and fugitive impressions. 
Deprived of her parents at an early age. Miss Flor¬ 
ence Sidney had remained in a convent at New 
York until her eighteenth year. Her relatives as¬ 
sembled by her guardian had there emancipated the 
minor and placed her entire fortune at her disposal. 
She had then gone to Italy, where the American 
colony had received her with open arms and petted 
her like a spoilt child. She had met Alice in Rome, 
and an intimacy had at once sprung up between 
them. But Madame Duseigneur knew no more of 
Florence’s past life than what the latter told to all 
the world. The young American must have had 
some painful secret which she guarded zealously, 
for at the least allusion to her past, a sudden mel¬ 
ancholy clouded her face; and at times, when sur¬ 
prised in deep thought, she would furtively wipe 
away her tears. 

Roland knew all this. This delicious child, at 
once enigmatical and simple, charmed and puzzled 
him. 

“I heard you extolling the charms of your inde¬ 
pendent life the other evening,” he said. "You 
must admit, nevertheless, that the loneliness is 
painful—no parents, only a few friends scattered 
over the world; it is sad for a young girl like you. 
Have you never thought of the happiness of having 
a fianc£, a husband? You are a too highly accom¬ 
plished woman to grow old alone.” 


loG 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“Perhaps; only you must not judge me as you 
would a Frenchwoman. We Americans are not 
brought up as Parisians are; from childhood we are 
taught that liberty that surprises and shocks you.” 

And then candidly, and with a charming reserve, 
she told of the surprises of her travels in Italy and 
in France; even analyzing, not without ingenuity, 
the pleasures she sometimes found in solitude. 
Marry? Why should she marry while her heart re¬ 
mained silent? To Florence the union of two be¬ 
ings was the most sacred of duties. Love alone 
should unite the husband and wife; for the bonds 
were not holy unless accepted voluntarily. The 
young girl condemned marriage as it is understood 
in France, where it is seldom the hearts that are 
united, but merely worldly interests that are in¬ 
volved. Roland listened, affecting to smile, but in 
reality much moved; for Florence had evidently 
never loved, and he hoped to be the first to make 
that virgin heart palpitate. 

“You speak like a true woman, Mademoiselle. If 
my compatriots are not like you, it is to be regret¬ 
ted. Happy will be the man of your choice!” 

“You must think me a little—a little silly, I 
fear,’’said Florence, blushing slightly. “A man like 
you, overwhelmed by the cares of business, has no 
time to think of love.” 

Roland became very grave, and a warm light 
burned in his eyes. 

“You know me but little,” he said earnestly. “On 


THE COTTAGE AT PASSY 


167 


the day when I think that I have a right to my 
share of happiness like others; when I dream of her 
I love and who is to become the mistress of a heart 
that she alone has ever moved; when that unknown 
one, whom I await and hope for, crosses my path 
in life—ah! I swear that what you call the cares of 
business shall no longer exist for me. My fortune 
is large enough that I need not strive for more. I 
will live for the one who shall be mine, and to 
whom I shall have given myself. My first love 
shall also be my last.” 

And now it was he who spoke of his secret 
hopes, of his conception of married existence. 
This man, gifted with such powerful judgment, 
such firm intelligence, possessed the warm and 
brilliant eloquence of an artist. If by good fortune 
the woman he married shared his tastes, his great¬ 
est happiness would be to roam over the world with 
her, and thus rejuvenate their ardent love by a 
perpetual renewal of sensations and recollections. 
Florence smiled in her turn, admitting within her 
heart that it would be delicious to visit those dis¬ 
tant lands that evoke the subtle dreams of the 
poets. 

"As I listen to you, Monsieur, it seems to me 
that I hear the voice of my dreams. I have always 
imagined that we should taste our impressions in 
an absolute plenitude of our faculties. When a 
being is perfectly happy, he feels more intensely 
the charms of admired landscapes.” 


1G8 


SUCH IS LIFE 


The hours flew past, and neither Florence nor 
Roland noticed their coming or going. After that 
exchange of ideas in common which bound him and 
her together by links they were as yet unaware of, 
they again spoke of the triumphal evening when the 
£lite of Paris had done honor to Alice. Miss Flor¬ 
ence was enthusiastic over the brilliant and power¬ 
ful talents of her friend, and the genius that in¬ 
spired her. 

"How much we owe these great artists who know 
so well how to express our thoughts! ” she cried, 
with flashing eyes. "This role of Marguerite—how 
many women have sung it; how rare are they who 
have left an ineffaceable impression of it! ” 

Carried away by her emotions, she arose and 
seated herself at the piano. She took up a score at 
hazard—that of Tristan et Yseult. Slowly her deli¬ 
cate fingers turned the pages until she came to that 
sublime duet, which is one of the noblest expres¬ 
sions of modern music. When she ceased playing, 
Roland could scarcely repress his tears. Silent 
and melancholy, they both shared the same serene 
and tender emotion. Like the Francesca and Paolo 
of the poet, they needed to say no more. 

When Roland left the cottage at Passy, he felt 
possessed by a new and powerful sentiment that 
surprised rather than alarmed him. He loved— 
impossible to break the voluntary chains that held 
him captive. He loved this young girl whom he 
had known but a few days. It was she, the un- 


THE COTTAGE AT PASSY 


169 


known hoped for at the turn of the road. Why 
should she not love him also? He had conquered 
fortune and overcome the world; he would know 
how to win a woman. 


Ill 


Florence’s secret 

A man sincerely enamored is incapable of reason¬ 
ing with himself. Instead of moderating the tender 
passion that was invading him, Roland abandoned 
himself to it more and more every day. After that 
first visit, he made a second, then a third, endeav¬ 
oring, however, to place a proper interval between 
them. He soon perceived that the afternoons dragged 
slowly on, unless spent at Passy, and that the even¬ 
ings were interminable when he was to go there 
the next day. Fortunately, lovers are fertile in 
ruses—ruses that are very old, and yet always new. 

Florence had taken a habit of going to Alice’s 
box each time the singer appeared at the Opera. 
Roland always appeared at the same moment, with 
an exactitude that betrayed the impatience of his 
heart. 

Madame Duseigneur soon perceived this love 
growing up between them. Never could she have 
wished for a more charming sister-in-law. But 
how could she learn Florence’s sentiment toward 
Roland? Question her friend? No, she did not 
dare; for this proud and chaste woman religiously 
respected the modesty of others. Besides, Alice, 

170 


FLORENCE'S SECRET 


171 


like her brother, remarked certain incomprehensible 
traits in the orphan’s character. Each time she 
spoke of marriage to her, the young girl repeated: 

“Certainly, I shall marry, but later on—later on—" 

What was she waiting for? On one occasion only 
was she expansive enough for Madame Duseigneur 
to guess a portion of the secret that oppressed this 
heart of nineteen. 

For a week past, the singer had been studying the 
role of Ophelia, chosen for her second d£but. One 
afternoon after rehearsal, Alice found Florence in¬ 
stalled in her victoria, awaiting her at the stage 
door on the Boulevard Haussman. 

“Are you afraid of the cold?” asked the American 
girl, laughing. 

“Not usually; but, as ± sing to-morrow, I do not 
want to be hoarse." 

“Then I shall send the victoria home. We will 
walk, and I shall escort you home if you will let 
me.” 

“I am quite willing," replied Alice. 

And they went on chatting gayly until they 
reached the Avenue Friedland. 

“You must come in," said Alice, as they reached 
the door. “My brother is very likely at home, and 
he will be so pleased to see you.” 

Florence blushed a little, and followed Madame 
Duseigneur. 

“Madame’s tea is served in the boudoir," said the 
maid, as they entered. 


172 


SUCH IS LIFE 


A bright fire blazed in the open chimney. The 
room, calm and peaceful, softly lighted by a lamp 
supported by a silver column, invited repose and 
reverie. 

"I am dying of hunger,” said Alice, laughing. 

And without removing her hat, she quickly poured 
the boiling tea into the cups of old Sevres, and 
deftly buttered the toast, while Florence sunk into 
a large arm-chair, leaned her cheek on her hand, and 
extended her little feet to the cheerful blaze. 

"Now that you are here, I am going to keep you," 
said Alice. ‘‘You will dine with us, and Roland 
will escort you home.” 

The pretty American tried to protest, but her 
friend would hear no excuse. 

“You have no other engagement for this evening,” 
she said, ‘‘and I will not hear of you spending it 
alone. You may not be lonesome in your home, 
but one should not leave her best friends to shut 
herself up for hours alone with books and music." 

"I shall remain, then,” replied Florence, smil¬ 
ing 

Alice seated herself beside her friend, and gazed 
thoughtfully at the fire. 

‘‘This is the pleasantest hour of the day for me,” 
she said. "I have finished my task, and I am satis¬ 
fied with myself, since I have worked conscien¬ 
tiously. And then I await my husband and brother. 
The Opera will soon close, and I rejoice in the an¬ 
ticipation of the moments I am to spend alone with 


FLORENCE'S SECRET 


173 


them and you, in the confidential intimacy of the 
family circle.” 

"Yes," mmmured Florence, with a sigh. “To 
love, to be loved—that, indeed, is life. How vain 
are all the other joys we envy, beside the joys that 
come from the heart! ” 

“Since you are convinced of that, why do you not 
make your actions accord with your desires? 
Pretty, rich, intelligent, it is easy for you to 
choose. What man, honored by your preference, 
would not be ready to throw himself at your feet?” 

But Miss Sidney made no reply; she had buried 
her face in her hands. 

“Great heavens! you are weeping! ” exclaimed 
Alice. 

“It is nothing—how ridiculous that I cannot con¬ 
trol my feelings—forgive me,”she sobbed. 

“Forgive you, my poor child! Why, it is I who 
am the guilty one. I must have awakened some 
painful recollections by some awkward phrase.” 

“Ah! well, yes, I admit it. You have spoken of 
marriage to me several times; and you do not know, 
no, you cannot know—” 

She stopped for a moment, then resumed in a lower 
voice: 

“It is impossible for me to marry! Do not try 
to understand; a sacred duty prevents me. Out of 
respect for myself, I have no right to dispose of 
my life until I have discharged my duty. If I 
loved, I would fly to the other end of the world to 


174 


SUCH IS LIFE 


destroy that love by forgetfulness; if I were cow¬ 
ardly enough to yield to my poor heart, I should 
soon despise the one who had caused me to for¬ 
get.” 

Alice listened to these enigmatical words in amaze¬ 
ment; and with this amazement a painful anguish 
soon mingled. She saw that Florence suffered, and 
she thought of what Roland would suffer also. 

The young girl dried her tears, and added in a 
tone of anguish: 

"And yet, I am born to be a happy wife and 
mother. I am born to have a husband, children, a 
home, a family—a family of my own, all my very 
own, I who have scarcely known the beloved beings 
who brought me into the world.” 

Her emotion was painful to behold; she again 
burst into tears, and threw herself on Alice’s bosom 
with the artless confidence of a wounded child. 
The young woman tried to comfort and console her; 
Florence shook her head gently, refusing to believe 
that any words of consolation could relieve her 
anguish. The poor child wept for a long time, and 
while looking at her, Madame Duseigneur tried to 
penetrate the cause of this paroxysm of despair. No 
doubt, the young girl had, or imagined that she 
had, a duty to perform—a duty that prevented her 
from giving herself, to a husband. She wished to 
remain independent, free to act without being under 
the restraint of a stranger. But she suffered from 
this voluntary bondage, since she so bitterly re- 


FLORENCE'S SECRET 


175 


gretted her inability to dispose of herself. And 
why did she suffer? She must already love some 
one. This some one was Roland. Indeed, not 
a word, not an allusion, betrayed Florence’s se¬ 
cret inclination: nevertheless, Alice had no doubt. 
She knew her friend’s mode of life; she knew that 
she saw few people and received no young men. 

Having at last controlled her emotion, the orphan 
arose and threw her arms around Alice’s neck. 

“How unreasonable I am!” she said, softly. 
"You treat me like a little sister; you love me, 
and spoil me; and instead of rejoicing over this un¬ 
expected affection, I weep like a child.” 

She now made an effort to smile through her tears, 
and kissed the great artist with a caressing tender¬ 
ness. 

“l am touched by your confidence, my dear,” Alice 
rejoined, "but pray confide all to me. I do not 
wish to know anything of what you call your secret. 
I even desire to remain in ignorance of the nature 
of those duties, to which you are sacrificing your 
youth. But can I not do something for you?" 

“Alas! nothing. However, I want you to make 
me a promise." 

“Willingly. What is it?” 

“That no one shall ever know one word of the 
half-confidences you have received. 

“I swear it.” 

“No one in the world? Neither your husband, 
nor—” Florence stopped, blushing. 


176 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"Neither my husband nor my brother,” finished 
Alice. 

The young girl turned away her head, to hide her 
agitation. Her friend had understood her. The 
conversation now turned on other subjects, and by 
degrees, Florence’s sadness was dispelled, as snow 
melts under an April sun. 

During the dinner and evening, Alice observed 
Roland and Florence closely, watching their man¬ 
ners toward each other. Aristide, who always 
guessed his wife’s intentions at the least glance, 
also hoped that his brother-in-law would marry this 
beautiful American girl. As he did not know 
that Miss Sidney believed herself condemned to 
celibacy, he concluded that Roland was sure of suc¬ 
cess. Did not an instinctive sympathy draw these 
two beings together? Alice, who was better informed, 
reasoned with more subtlety. A woman is never 
deceived when she judges the heart of another 
woman by her own. Her friend loved Roland; she 
could not be mistaken. Had not Florence blushed 
when he kissed her hand? Now, seated at her side, 
he was speaking to her in a low voice, and a de¬ 
licious smile brightened her face, giving it an al¬ 
most angelic expression. A pure flame burned in 
the eyes of this adorable creature, who abandoned 
herself so innocently to the happiness she felt. She 
loved—Alice doubted no longer. The naive joy 
which the young girl did not attempt to hide, the 
frank gayety that so suddenly succeeded her grief 


FLORENCE'S SECRET 


177 


and tears, were so many sure indications. Florence 
was gay and charming the whole evening; it was 
only as the hour of departure approached, that her 
sadness returned—the hour when she would leave 
that home in which she was surrounded by so much 
affection. Roland escorted her to Passy, as Alice 
had promised; but she remained silent during the 
entire distance, curled up in the corner of the car¬ 
riage. And he respected her silence, not daring to 
speak, for he guessed her embarrassment and confu¬ 
sion. When he extended his hand to assist her 
from the carriage, Florence raised her eyes to his, 
and he saw that they were wet and heavy with 
tears. As she placed her trembling, hand in his, 
she murmured: 

“Thank you!” and disappeared behind the garden 
gate. 


IV 


THE PROPOSAL 

Time sped swiftly on, bringing February, with its 
cold and rainy days. Madame SalberF s fame was now 
a conceded fact. Jealousy was silenced by universal 
acclamation. After Ophelia, Valentine, Juliet, 
and the other heroines of opera followed. The 
newspapers predicted that the new star would prob¬ 
ably soon disappear from the Parisian sky, to shine 
in another firmament. It was becoming fashiona¬ 
ble for celebrated artists to star in foreign coun¬ 
tries. It was said that an enterprising manager 
had offered Madame Salbert a clear million francs 
for one hundred representations in the two Amer¬ 
icas. They were discussing the rumor at the club 
this evening. 

“I am positive it is false,” declared Fernand de 
Quinsac, a young man who claimed to be always 
well-informed on such matters. 

"But, my dear fellow, I have the story from Rene 
Lestourmel, ” protested the young man who had 
brought the information. 

“Well, and what of that?” 

“You forget that Madame Rosenheim is a cousin 
of the director of the Opera, and she has no secrets 
for Lestourmel.” 


178 


THE PROPOSAL 


170 


"I don’t get my information in a roundabout 
way,” retorted Fernand; “I reason by induction. If 
Madame Salbert was one of those women who are 
obliged to earn their living with their talents, you 
might be right; but she is rich.” 

“Her brother is rich, not she.” 

“Then, why does he allow her to remain on the 
stage?” 

"It seems that it is impossible to reason with 
her. Besides, a celebrated singer never loses her 
prestige. And, then, fame is such a powerful tempt¬ 
ress ! Moreover, it is said that Madame Salbert 
has known poverty—genuine misery; in fact, the 
struggle for existence in all its repulsive reality. 
The applauses of to-day are her consolation and 
revenge. But ask Salverte. ” 

Rene, who was playing besique at the other end 
of the room, raised his eyes on hearing his name. 

‘‘What is it?” he cried. 

"We are speaking of Montfranchet and his 
sister, and we need you for reference.” 

Ren6 gave a satisfied laugh. Alice’s fame and 
Roland’s millions reflected on him. The good 
fellow actually believed that he was the author of 
all their happiness. Nothing flattered him more 
than to be questioned concerning his illustrious 
friends. In fact, his loquacity had been very useful 
to them. It was through him that the Parisian 
world heard the heroic and charming legend of this 
brother and sister, who had achieved success by 


180 


SUCH IS LIFE 


constant work, talent, and force of will. Society, 
or, rather, the two thousand coteries that compose 
Parisian society, is too indifferent to sift the 
facts that are related. They never dig below the 
bark. They, therefore, knew nothing of these two 
parallel existences, beyond what concerned them 
together. In Alice, the women of Parisian society, 
although always a little envious, not only admired 
the great artist, but they respected the woman also. 
Instead of becoming intoxicated by success, Madame 
Duseigneur showed extreme simplicity; never speak¬ 
ing of herself, and cutting short, with a graceful 
timidity, the exaggerated praises showered upon her. 
She offered her services to all charitable works, 
and gave the support of her reputation without 
urging. In society, Alice never needed pressing 
to sing, but always did so with the same smiling 
affability. 

One day a great nobleman organized a concert for 
the benefit of a military hospital to be erected on 
the outskirts of Paris. He naturally addressed 
himself to the celebrated artists, but they all de¬ 
manded high remuneration; Madame Duseigneur 
alone would accept nothing. 

“I practice my profession on the boards,” she 
said; "in the world, I am again a woman of the 
world.” 

As the richest people are often the most miserly, 
she was praised for this uncommon generosity. As 
to Roland, he was loved and esteemed for similar 


THE PROPOSAL 


181 


reasons. He not only showed himself to be not a mere 
fortunate speculator, like so many others, but, on the 
contrary, he showed himself to be an admirer of 
arts, and a lover of the literary movement of the 
day. His varied and profound erudition, and his 
perfect knowledge of foreign languages, marked 
him as a superior being. The world had at once 
forgiven him his great wealth on account of his 
modest beginning and the quiet manner of exist¬ 
ence he adopted. 

Besides, that fortune had been rapidly amassed, 
in one day, by one of those lucky strokes that 
astound the Bourse. One morning a few foolhardy 
speculators undertook to wreck the famous Societe 
des Metaux. It was only reasonable to suppose 
that this company, patronized and supported by the 
kings of finance, would valiantly withstand the 
attack; and Roland, scenting the inevitable dis¬ 
comfiture, invested audaciously in the falling stock. 
The result proved his shrewdness—in two months 
he had increased his capital tenfold. Some said, 
“He is lucky;” others retorted, “He is mighty 
shrewd.” Neither the first nor second were mis¬ 
taken. Lucky or shrewd, Roland henceforth in¬ 
spired absolute confidence, and in Paris, confidence 
is half of success. 

The banker cared little whether or not his equi¬ 
pages attracted attention; he was absolutely in¬ 
different to the sporting world. He possessed none 
of the petty vanities of this world; but, at the 


182 


SUCH IS LIFE 


sales of paintings and libraries, M. Montfranchet 
was the first to arrive. 

This particular position which the brother and 
sister had created for themselves brought them 
renown and solid sympathy. In the discussion 
raised at the Cercle , there was more of curiosity 
than spite. The Parisian is a born gossip: but 
when this Parisian is a club-man, this love of gos¬ 
sip becomes a chronic disease. 

They all awaited Salverte’s answer impatiently. 

“I believe that Quinsac is mistaken,” he said. 
"Such an old friend of the Montfranchets as I am 
is usually well informed in respect to them. What 
belongs to the brother belongs also to the sister; 
and Roland being a millionaire, our great artist 
is one also. She, therefore, has no need of running 
around the world like Patti. But then, I would 
not dare affirm that she will decline this offer. 
When the heart is in the proper place, one does 
not like to owe any luxuries to another, even if he 
be the most affectionate of brothers. Madame 
Salbert may, perhaps, decide to earn a large fort¬ 
une of her own. She would have signed the pro¬ 
posed engagement before this, if Roland had not 
protested.” 

Rent’s answer placed no one in the wrong, and 
it pleased everybody. He did not add that, just 
at this moment, Alice was unwilling to undertake 
a journey and leave her brother alone. Salverte, 
like all their intimate friends, knew of the love 


THE PROPOSAL 


183 


that was growing in Roland’s heart; but, as he 
did not see behind the scenes, he could not under¬ 
stand why his friend’s marriage with Miss Flor¬ 
ence was not already announced. This was the 
problem that the good fellow tried in vain to solve. 
These two beings seemed destined and promised to 
each other. What obstacle could separate them? 
Both were orphans and wealthy; it depended only 
on themselves. It was sufficient to see them to¬ 
gether to guess that they worshiped each other. 

Then, why did they not marry? Salverte would 
have been much astonished to learn that Roland 
had not yet dared make his avowal. 

Nevertheless, it was true! The banker now 
passed long hours each day in the cottage at Passy. 
Work and business no longer existed for him; he 
thought of Florence only. Every afternoon he set 
off, fully determined to take the young girl’s hand 
in his and say to her, “I love you; will you be my 
wife?” But an insurmountable timidity kept him 
silent. This man, with a virgin heart and chaste 
life, had never known love; and love appeared to 
him like a formidable master. He knew that he 
was not indifferent to Florence, and that she was 
always pleased to see him. But then, also^ she 
was sometimes cold and silent, as if trying to place 
a gulf between them. As Alice had respected her 
friend’s secret, Roland was in ignorance of the hid¬ 
den motives of her actions. 

“What a strange girl!” he thought. “The worst 


184 


SUCH IS LIFE 


coquette could not act more capriciously, and yet 
she has nothing of the coquette. Her eyes are 
too pure, her manners too frank. She has guessed 
that I love her, and yet sometimes she seems to 
take me in aversion, as if dreading to hear me 
speak of my love. Nevertheless, she is not one of 
those women who promise and refuse in turn, through 
caprice or pleasure, merely to excite the passion 
they inspire.” 

On this day Roland went out soon after breakfast. 
As usual, he was going to Passy, and he walked on 
hurriedly, with the impatience of a school-boy. 
Florence was reading when he arrived, and her 
pretty face lighted up as she saw her friend. 

“How charming of you to come so early! ” she 
cried. 

“Then I do not bore you?” he said smiling. 

“Oh! you are fishing for a compliment,” she 
laughed; “but no, you will not get it. Now, I 
must thank you for your pretty flowers; they ar¬ 
rived from Nice this morning. See how fresh and 
fragrant they are.” 

Flowers were the only presents which Roland 
took the liberty of making. Two or three times a 
week a gardener at Nice sent Miss Sidney a regular 
remittance. To palliate the impropriety of these 
gifts addressed to a young girl by a young man, Alice 
pretended that she and Roland were the joint send¬ 
ers. 

“If your sister and yourself only knew what joy 


THE PROPOSAL 


185 


you cause me in spoiling me thus,” she resumed in 
her sweet tone. “It is so good to be loved; I am 
alone in the world.” 

He was seated at her side, and these words 
thrilled his heart. 

“Alone in the world, Miss Florence?” he cried, 
reproachfully. “Are you blind or ungrateful to com¬ 
plain thus? Have you not a home in my home, 
a family in my family? When you consent to join 
us, do you not bring us joy and happiness?” 

Roland’s voice trembled with emotion. Florence 
was very pale, and closed her eyes. 

“Oh, hush! ” she murmured. 

“Hush? Yet I did not startle you. No, let me 
speak; let me confess my love and lay my heart 
bare before you. I am thirty-two years of age, 
Florence; until now, I have never loved. What 
will you? Life has been harsh to me; and a man 
who has not the assurance of the morrow, would 
be an egoist or a fool if he chose a companion. 
When fortune smiled on me, I became absorbed 
in ambitious dreams. I had sworn to never be¬ 
long but to one woman; and that woman I awaited 
long. When I met her—” 

He seized Miss Sidney’s hand, and he felt it 
trembling within his own. Then suddenly she 
started back as if to snatch it from his grasp. 

“Oh, hush! ” she repeated a second time. 

But Roland would not be silent; he would have 
the last word of this strange woman. 


186 


SUCH IS LIFE 


‘When I met her,” he resumed ardently, "I felt 
at the first glance that she had conquered my heart. 
None so beautiful, so elegant, so exquisite; no 
other possesses a charm like her own, a candor 
like her own. When near her, I become as timid 
as a child, and I fear to profane her sovereign chas¬ 
tity as we fear to crush a lily by a touch.” 

‘‘Oh! hush!—hush!” she repeated in a voice 
that seemed like a faint breath. 

He said no more, searching those blue eyes that 
turned from his gaze, searching for the little hand 
that avoided his own. Florence murmured a few 
words; then, vanquished also by the sincerity of 
that love palpitating at her side, she allowed her 
blonde head to fall on Roland’s shoulder. 

Thus it was they understood each other. There 
was no need of words. For a few minutes they re¬ 
mained silent, gazing at each other, reading their 
promises in each other’s eyes, overcome by the de¬ 
licious emotion that filled their hearts. Then 
he knelt before her and clasped her hands in 
his. 

‘‘My wife!—you will then be my wife!" he ex¬ 
claimed. The young girl uttered a cry of pain as 
if suddenly awakened from an enchanted dream. 
With one bound she ran to the other extremity of 
the room; and tottering, half fainting, she leaned 
against the open piano. Her paleness had now be¬ 
come lividity; she stood there motionless and trem¬ 
bling. 


THE PROPOSAL 


187 


"Your wife? I shall never be your wife," came 
from the pale lips at last. 

Roland thought himself in a dream. What! this 
was her answer, when five minutes before she had 
shared his agitation and ecstasy! 

"You repulse me—you refuse me?" he stam¬ 
mered. 

"Yes," she said, by a great effort and in an al¬ 
most unintelligible voice. 

Roland hid his face in his burning hands, trying 
to master his emotion to choke down the powerful 
rebellion of his whole being. 

"Was it you who spoke, Mademoiselle, you or—or 
the other? You are double! There are two women 
in you: she whose eyes say to me, ‘Love me: I 
love you ;’ and she whose voice replies, ‘You will 
never be my husband !' Which are you? I do not 
understand. I who respect you as much as I adore 
you—I refuse to judge you. But judge yourself! 

0 

Why have you so long abused my confidence? You 
could not misunderstand my feelings toward you. 
My love—ah! my love—you read it in my glance, 
you heard it in my words! You should have told 
me you were not free. And yet, a few moments 
ago, I saw you trembling with emotion, there near 
me. It is impossible that you should be playing 
an abominable comedy! Florence, yes or no, do 
you love me?" 

She seemed to be suffering atrociously; and her 
white lips quivered. 


188 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“No—no, I do not love you,” she said in a 
broken voice. Roland repressed the sobs that arose 
from his heart to his lips, and rushed out wildly. 
As she saw him disappear, Florence held out her 
arms as if to stop him; then, almost fainting, she 
fell on her knees. She wept, oh! what bitter tears 
she shed, feeling that her happiness had flown 
through the half-open door. Roland would scorn 
and despise her. His hatred she could bear; but 
his contempt? She revolted at the thought that 
he would believe her to be deceitful, coquettish 
and perfidious. And now she lay prone on the 
carpet, her head buried in her arms, crushed by 
her suffering. 

“Oh! mamma, mamma,” murmured the poor child, 
“inspire me, you who are in Heaven—what should 
I do? And will you forgive me if I fail in the 
oath I have made?” 

As she finished her agonized prayer, the sound of 
the door-bell startled her. The superstitious Amer¬ 
ican girl shivered, as if a mysterious correlation 
existed between her despairing supplication and 
this unexpected visitor. It was not a visitor, how¬ 
ever. Florence hurried to the window, and saw a 
telegraph messenger handing a dispatch to the 
maid. Still under the influence of her agitation, 
she rushed out into the hall, not having the pa¬ 
tience to wait until the message was brought to her. 
She tore open the envelope with a nervous hand, 
and read these two lines: 


THE PROPOSAL 


189 


“Arrived at Havre. Will be in Paris to-night by 
midnight express. Good news. Nelly.” 

“Good news?” thought Florence. “Can it be?— 
but no, I dare not hope that. Dear Nelly! I am 
then to see her again after a year, a long year of 
separation. ” 

A faint color returned to Florence’s pale cheeks, 
and a kind of feverish joy took possession of her. 
After the painful scene she had just undergone, the 
young girl now caught at this last Tiope. She nerv¬ 
ously rang the bell for her maid. 

“Dolly,” said she, ‘Miss Nelly will be here to¬ 
night; prepare her room.” 

Dolly—a big Irish girl brought from New York— 
at once understood the importance of her mission. 

“Miss Nelly coming!” she exclaimed. “I am very 
glad for your sake, Miss, and for us all, for things 
go better when Miss Nelly is here.” 

“Thank you Dolly; you are a faithful servant.” 

Dolly retired flattered, and proud of her mistress’ 
compliment. Florence was adored by her servants. 
The maid, the cook, the footman, the coachman, 
all were devotedly attached to her. This charming 
girl awakened affection around her, as the sun ex¬ 
pands the flowers in a garden. 


Y 


DESPAIR 

Roland had sunk on a bench at the end of a de¬ 
serted walk. At this season of the year the Bois 
has few visitors; the damp and stripped shrubbery 
is not inviting to the playful children and shivering 
mothers. Roland was buried in thought. She did 
not love him! Again he recalled Florence’s painful 
emotion as she listened to his avowal, the ecstasy 
she had felt, the mysterious impulse of modest 
tenderness with which the young girl had leaned 
on him. All that was not a dream! She had yielded 
to the irresistible impulse of her heart. Then 
why had she said, "I shall never be your wife; I 
do not love you”? And he began to reproach and 
condemn her. 

"She is a coquette, and the most dangerous of co¬ 
quettes,” he thought. “One of those whom we be¬ 
lieve frank and sincere, who inspire confidence and 
respect. She knew that I loved her from the very 
first day I saw her; did she not try by every 
means to increase my illusion? She could very 
easily have declined to receive me; she could have 
driven me from her, and prevented this sweet inti¬ 
macy which linked us together.” 

190 




DESPAIR 


191 


A shiver of anguish shook his frame. This inti¬ 
macy was now at an end! Those daily visits that 
had become the sole joys of his existence were then 
over! The unfortunate suffered atrociously. For the 
first time since the assassination and theft that had 
enriched him his luck deserted him. During those 
years, Roland had not for a single instant been 
seized by remorse. 

The murderer had never known this pale and 
sinister companion of criminals, which Shakespeare 
portrays as a specter bending over his nocturnal 
couch. Not a ray of repentance ever filtered through 
his brain. If at times his memory evoked the re¬ 
membrance of this terrible drama, Roland applauded 
himself, as if it were a brave act not to have 
recoiled before this fortunate deed. And behold: 
fate suddenly turned against him. The fatalism of 
this man was weakening. He asked himself if un¬ 
happy days were not in store for him, since he, the 
sovereign of fate and men, had suddenly dashed 
and stranded himself against the caprice and co¬ 
quetry of a little girl! Only a little girl, it is 
true, but the most delicious and charming of 
creatures! 

Among the works of great poets, was one which 
Roland read and reread constantly—the “Elective 
Affinities of Goethe.” Florence reminded him of 
Ottilia, the exquisite heroine of the German poet; 
Ottilia, that virgin so candid and so loving, always 
ready to reason between her passion and her duty, 


192 


SUCH IS LIFE 


ready also to sacrifice herself to the appeals of her 
conscience. With the double sight of the man sin¬ 
cerely enamored, Roland asked himself if Florence 
did not perhaps also believe herself called upon to 
sacrifice her happiness to duty. But the hypothesis 
seemed inadmissible. Was she not free, rich, an 
orphan, unconstrained by family ties, sheltered from 
all material cares? And this woman appeared 
enigmatic to him; he preferred to accuse her, rather 
than admit the intervention of an imperious 
duty. 

‘I suffer; there is no denying its truth,” he said 
to himself. ‘‘I am not stupid enough to imagine 
that this suffering is a chastisement. Chastisement 
of what? I consider those metaphysicians as ab¬ 
surd who maintain that wrong is something nega¬ 
tive. As Schopenhauer has said, on the contrary, 
wrong only is positive, since it makes itself felt. 
All good, all happiness, is negative, since they only 
suppress desire.” 

And, as always, with the aid of his favorite phi¬ 
losophers, he repelled the thought of punishment; 
a logical deduction, since he repelled the thought 
of a conscience. Why should a man be just, when 
justice is banished from this world? Nature is 
monstrous. She has created certain animals to de¬ 
vour others; she has imagined silly parasitisms. 
Why was there a drone in the bee-hive? He had 
killed Mrs. Readish, a drunkard and a morphino- 
maniac. It was his right as a worker. Once again, 


DESPAIR 


193 


the working-bee had suppressed the useless drone. 
No! to nature, there is neither right nor wrong, for 
she ignores justice and pity. 

By a strange contradiction, this man did not hes¬ 
itate to blame Florence—to believe her capable of 
acting a repugnant comedy. And yet, not for an in¬ 
stant did he suppose her to be unworthy of him. 
That virgin, with the look of an angel, was above 
suspicion. And at this thought, his love was en¬ 
kindled anew by all the regrets of a lost treas¬ 
ure. 

What was to be done? He did not know. Renounce 
Florence? He admitted to himself that he had not 
the courage. Then he would still continue to see 
her, to visit her at her home? He would not 
break the tender links of intimacy that charmed and 
enthralled them? Who knows? Perhaps he would 
yet triumph over this inexplicable resistance; per¬ 
haps she Would yet consent to be his wife. He 
arose and walked slowly through the deserted walks. 
Still a prey to this combat within him, he crossed 
the Bois de Boulogne, and mechanically turned 
homeward. 

Alice had just returned. Usually her brother 
sent for her, or else came to her apartments. Sur¬ 
prised to see he had not come, she crossed the 
large building that separated the two wings, and 
rapped softly at Roland’s door. Receiving no an¬ 
swer, she opened it, and found the room in dark¬ 
ness. 

Such is Life 13 


194 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"He has not returned yet,” she thought. 

As she was turning away, she heard a stifled sob, 
and, bending forward, she perceived her brother ly¬ 
ing on a couch. With a handkerchief between his 
teeth to muffle the sound of his sobs, Roland was 
weeping despairingly. The young woman rushed 
to his side in affright. 

"Great heavens! what is the matter?” she ex¬ 
claimed. 

And, as he was silent, she kissed him tenderly as 
he lay there motionless and crushed. 

"I understand,” she murmured. "You have seen 
Florence and told her that you loved her?” 

"Yes.” 

"Tell me all about it!” 

Roland obeyed. In a low, broken voice, he related 
all to his sister; told her of this love that had been 
growing in his heart for weeks, of the daily visits 
to this young girl, and, finally, of the Avowal torn 
from his lips by the irresistible force of his 
passion. Alice listened pensively. She understood 
now. 

"You know that you can trust me?” she said. "You 
know that I am passionately devoted to you; that I 
would sacrifice my life without hesitation to assure 
your happiness? Well! I swear to you that she 
loves you!” 

She said these words with so much assurance that 
Roland shuddered. 

"She loves me! How do you know? She cannot 


DESPAIR 


195 


have told you so, since she told me the con¬ 
trary!” 

“She loves you! ” continued the young woman. I 
know her; she is a sweet, loyal, and true woman. 
She would be the worst of coquettes if, after what 
has passed between you—” 

“Oh! you do not understand!” he interrupted. “I 
asked her to be my wife; she refused. Again I 
asked her, 'Do you love me?’ and her reply was, 
'No, I do not love you!’" 

“She loves you! ” repeated Alice, with conviction. 
“Men do not understand women. The shrewdest, 
the most observing of you could never disentangle 
the complications of conscience of the least intelli¬ 
gent of us ! You have, then, never thought that Flor¬ 
ence perhaps believed herself separated from you by 
an obstacle that is not in her power to surmount? 
Indeed, my sisterly love is too active to be wanting 
in vigilance. You gave your heart to Florence on 
the very first day you saw her. Knowing her to be 
free, I rejoiced over this love; you could never 
have chosen a wife who could be dearer to me as a 
sister. I have studied you both; you are worthy 
of each other. From day to day I have seen her 
love grow as I have seen yours expand. Be patient 
and strong, as you have always been, and I swear 
that a day will come when this young girl shall ap¬ 
pear so noble and pure that you will never forgive 
yourself for having accused her.” 

Roland listened, dumb, bewildered, not daring to 


106 


SUCH IS LIFE 


hope, but no longer daring to doubt. She kissed 
him tenderly, with the solicitude of a mother, and 
the emotion of a sister. 

“Weep no more; dry your tears. And may you be 
happy enough in the future to never regret this day 
when you were so unhappy.” 


VI 


nelly’s news 

The platform of the Gare de V Ouest was thronged 
with people. The Havre express, with its travelers 
from beyond the sea, was due at midnight. Here, 
an anxious mother watched with yearning eyes for 
the apparition of the red lantern; and ■ there, a 
wealthy speculator awaited in anxiety for the re¬ 
sult of some ambitious scheme. In the midst of this 
agitated throng, enveloped in a seal-skin cloak, 
stood Miss Florence, motionless, with her hands 
thrust in her muff. A thick veil covered her face, 
and her most intimate friends might have passed 
by without recognizing her. At last, a piercing 
shriek rent the night, through which shone the 
whiteness of the electric light, and the train glided 
majestically into the station. While her neighbors 
rushed to the gate, Florence remained in the same 
position, quietly watching the travelers as they de¬ 
scended from the cars. 

“There she is!" she murmured, as she made her 
way straight toward a young woman who was look¬ 
ing eagerly at the right and left, as if expecting 
some one. 

“Nelly, my dear Nelly!” she cried, as she threw 
her arms around her neck 

197 


198 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“Oh! Mademoiselle, Mademoiselle, how delighted 
I am to see you again, after that long year of exile! ” 

“Come quick. Antoine is here; he will see to your 
baggage. We will go on together; you must be 
very tired, my poor Nelly.” 

They entered the coup£, which dashed rapidly up 
the Rue Saint-Lazare. 

“I do not feel the fatigue now that I, see you 
again,” said Nelly, as she pressed her mistress’ 
hand affectionately. "You must keep me with you, 
Mademoiselle, for I am too unhappy when away 
from you. Just think, this is the first time I have 
left you in six years. Besides, you are nearing suc¬ 
cess. ” 

Florence shuddered. 

“Hush! ” she muttered. “I will not hear anything 
until we reach home.” 

They did ndt exchange another word during the 
remainder of the distance. At last the coupe 
passed through the gateway of the garden, and 
stopped at the steps of the veranda. 

“I have had tea served in my room,” Florence 
said, as they entered. “It is very pretty, and re¬ 
minds me of my convent room. But come. There, 
sit in that arm-chair near the fire and warm your¬ 
self. No, no; do not stir! ” 

“Oh! Mademoiselle,” expostulated the confused 
Nelly. 

Florence burst into a merry laugh. Never had 
she been more gay or in better humor. 


NELLY’S NEWS 


199 


"You will not allow me to serve you? Well, you 
are rather hard to please,” she said; then, resum¬ 
ing her gravity, she added: “I have long since 
ceased to consider you as a servant, Nelly. I shall 
never forget your kindness and devotion to me in 
that cruel hour when I became an orphan, and was 
left alone in the world. It was you who comforted 
and consoled me after the terrible assassination of 
my mother. It is not merely an intimacy that exists 
Detween us, but we are linked by a common pur¬ 
pose. Now give me the good news you promised me. ” 
* * * * * * 

By her first marriage with Mr.. Sidney, Mrs. 

Readish had one daughter, to whom they gave the 
pretty name of Florence. The child grew up in the 
worship and veneration of her mother; her attach¬ 
ment was so great that she pined and became ill if 
separated from her for a few days. Although Sacha 
was not of an affectionate nature, she was flattered 
by this passion she inspired in her child. When she 
held her on her knees, the little one would place her 
arms caressingly around her mother’s neck, and 
murmur sweetly: "Mamma is the prettiest woman in 
the world. ” This was before the days when morphine 
and whisky had stupefied Mrs. Readish; when her 
beauty still dazzled New York in winter and Sara¬ 
toga in summer. Florence’s happiness was of short 
duration, however. One morning Sacha came to 
her little daughter’s bedside and made an an¬ 
nouncement that startled the child. 


200 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"My darling," she said sweetly, "you are always 
afraid when I return home late from the theater 
or a ball; in the future, you will have nothing to 
fear, as I am going to marry again.” 

Florence did not understand at once; she looked 
at her mother interrogatively out of her large blue 
eyes. 

"Marry again?" she repeated. 

"Yes, my child. You have never known your father, 
and I will give you another.” 

Although the child did not quite understand^, she 
felt a sharp pain in her heart, and raising herself 
in her bed, sh6 joined her hands together, and cried 
beseechingly: 

"You are not going to leave me, are you, 
mamma? " 

"How foolish you are, Florence. Why should I 
leave you?" replied her mother, touched by this cry 
of distress. 

She had to seal this promise with many kisses; 
but Florence was at least pacified. Mr. Readish, 
Sacha’s second husband, was a kind-hearted and an 
intelligent man. Having married for love, he fully 
intended to be a veritable father to this little 
orphan. Unfortunately, Florence soon perceived 
that her mother preferred this stranger, who had 
been introduced into their home, to herself; and 
the child suffered all the torments, anxieties, and 
anguish of feminine jealousy. She did not say: 


NELLY’S NEWS 


201 


“Mamma does not love me,’’ but “Mamma loves 
some one better than me.” 

In a few weeks her cheeks lost their roundness 
and color, and her eyes became dull and sad. 

Intoxicated by the happiness of her honey-moon, 
the mother did not remark the change in the child’s 
appearance. The step-father was the first to feel 
any uneasiness. An eminent physician was imme¬ 
diately consulted. He was astounded at this physi¬ 
ological phenomenon: a child six years of age at¬ 
tacked by nervous prostration! He could prescribe 
no medicine, but recommended pure country air, to 
strengthen the frail body and nourish the depressed 
muscles. When Florence heard that she must leave 
her mother, she was overcome by despair. They 
were forced to tell her what they feared, to recon¬ 
cile her to the separation. They assured her that 
if she took care of herself and recovered quickly 
her absence would be short—a few months at the 
most. These few months lengthened into a year; 
and when Mrs. Readish at last recalled the child 
home, it was only for a short time. During these 
few weeks she gradually prepared the young heart 
for a new separation. Business interests frequently 
called Sacha and her husband on long journeys. It 
was impossible to take the child with them. More¬ 
over, it was time to begin her education. 

During her exile, Florence had learned self-re¬ 
liance. Her little brain began to form a precise 
idea of life. Since she could not have her beloved 


202 


SUCH IS LIFE 


mother to herself, it was better not to have her at 
all. She did not blame her mother, but that other, 
the stranger who had stolen her affections. When¬ 
ever Sacha sacrificed an hour to her daughter, she 
was always very affectionate and caressing. 

“How much I suffer far from you, my darling little 
Flora! " she would whisper lovingly. 

So well did she play her part that the child was 
convinced that her mother was not free, and that her 
second husband maliciously kept them apart. 

This thought filled her mind, in the solitude of 
the convent. Months glided away into years; and 
Florence grew in strength and beauty. Her an¬ 
gelic sweetness won her the love of her companions, 
as well as the affection of the good sisters, who pet¬ 
ted and spoilt her. This persistent idea ripened 
the intelligence of the little girl, giving it a pre¬ 
cocious activity. She worked assiduously, encour¬ 
aged by the thought that the sooner she completed 
her studies the sooner she would leave the conyent. 
Her greatest joys were the maternal letters she re¬ 
ceived regularly once a week. One Monday, her 
letter came in a black-bordered envelope. Mrs. 
Readish announced her second widowhood to her 
daughter without much display of grief. It is true 
that after the first transports of the honey-moon she 
had cared as little for her second husband as for the 
first. In those four cold pages, Florence read and 
understood only one phrase, “Now I have no one 
but vou.” She gave a cry of natural egotism. At 


NELLY'S NEWS 


203 


last her mother would belong to her as formerly. 
They would be reunited, and no one could ever sep¬ 
arate them. 

The illusion did not last long. Not only did 
Mrs. Readish remain in Europe, but her letters 
ceased. The Superioress did not at first dare tell 
Florence that her mother had become an inmate of 
the Berlin Asylum, and was unable to write. How¬ 
ever, the child’s health suffered so much from the 
suspense, that they were compelled to reveal the 
truth. 

“Mamma is not in danger of death?” she asked, 
with quivering lips and an agonized look. 

“Indeed no, I assure you! In a few months she 
will be cured, completely cured.” , 

“I had rather hear that mamma is ill than to 
think that she does not love me! ” 

Once more the child recovered. But these moral 
shocks sharpened her sensitiveness by weakening 
her nervous system. At last, after many years of ab¬ 
sence, Mrs Readish returned. She felt a thrill of 
joy as she beheld Florence. What! this exquisite 
creature was her child! Flattered in her self-love, 
she imagined she had always been a model mother. 
Did not her daughter worship her? 

“What! you are going away again, mamma! ” cried 
the child, her eyes filled with tears, when Mrs. 
Readish announced that she was merely passing 
through New York. 

“For the last time, my Flora. I must take care 


204 


SUCH IS LIFE 


of my fortune. I must see to those lands scattered 
right and left over the Far West and in Indo-China. ” 

“This voyage frightens me," murmured Florence, 
her pretty face clouding up. 

“Afraid, my child! ” 

“Ah! mamma, you do not know what horrible sto¬ 
ries they tell of those desperadoes out West." 

“Do not fear. I take my maid with me, and a 
French gentleman who is well-informed and cour¬ 
ageous. " 

“I hope you will not be gone very long?” 

“No, no; I promise you." 

During her short stay in New York, Mrs. Readish 
spent a great deal of her time at the convent, sur¬ 
prised and at the same time satisfied to find herself 
a happy mother. Had Florence been plain and awk¬ 
ward, Sacha would have troubled herself little 
about her. But, however wicked and indifferent a 
woman may be, she is always flattered when, after 
wandering over the world, she returns to find a ten¬ 
der and faithful filial love. When Mrs. Readish 
left New York, it was with the promise of soon re¬ 
turning. 

And she never returned! 

When Florence heard of the attack on the log- 
house and of her mother’s assassination, she almost 
lost her reason. And when she became convales¬ 
cent, after two weeks of feverish delirium, a strange 
transformation had taken place in her. Her childish 
gayety was gone, and her mind seemed suddenly 


NELLY'S NEWS 


205 


matured. Her guardian, who was a distant relative, 
felt a great interest in the unhappy orphan, and did 
all he could to console her. 

“My house is open to you, my dear cousin, if you 
wish to leave the convent,” he said kindly. 

But Florence did not wish to leave the good sis¬ 
ters. She merely expressed a desire of engaging 
the maid who had accompanied her mother on that 
terrible journey. She several times asked for details 
concerning the gentleman whom everybody praised 
for his courage and devotion. But as she had not 
yet left her bed when Roland returned to New York, 
she could not receive him and thank him in person 
for his brave defense of her mother. Florence there¬ 
fore showered all her love and gratitude on Nelly; 
and Nelly in turn soon learned to love her little 
mistress. How unlike were the mother and daughter ! 
the mother, violent, passionate and cruel; the 
daughter, gentle, patient, and simple. The orphan 
soon loved this new-comer, this unexpected confidante 
that fate brought her. How often did Nelly, with 
an oppressed heart, listen quietly to Florence as 
she spoke of her mother, praising her sweetness 
and gentleness. The humble servant piously re¬ 
spected these tender illusions, knowing well that 
these illusions are the sweetest things in life. 
When Miss Sidney had become assured of her fidelity, 
she revealed her projects to her confidante. 

This child of thirteen vowed to avenge her mur 
dered mother ! 


206 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"I have had the exact details of the crime de¬ 
scribed to me,” said Florence. “I have read all the 
newspaper reports; I have copied with my own hand 
all the evidence given at the inquest, and the coro¬ 
ner’s report. It is clear that only five or six bandits 
entered the log-cabin. Of these, the ranchmen 
caught and lynched three on the spot. With his 
last breath, one of these men denied that he or any 
of his comrades had strangled mamma, saying: 
‘We steal, but we do not murder.’ So Francis 
Chevrin must be the murderer! And what has be¬ 
come of that wretch? That is what I must find out.” 

From that day Nelly became Miss Sidney’s aid 
and lieutenant. Mr. Clark, who was authorized by 
her guardian to manage the estate, willingly assisted 
her. While in convent, Miss Sidney did not spend 
the one-hundredth part of her income, and Mr. Clark 
placed large sums of money at her disposal to pursue 
her researches. After six months of prudent investi¬ 
gations, they were successful. Francis Chevrin 
was discovered working as a laborer in the Caledonia 
Mines, near Deadwood; and a little less than one 
year after the crime, this man was arrested, to the 
great indignation of the lower class, who were 
surprised at this unusual severity. 

When Francis Chevrin learned that he was to be 
tried by a jury, his fears were greatly lessened. 
American juries, and even judges, are sometimes 
bought, both considering it a part of their perqui¬ 
sites. It was impossible to deny that Franfois was 


NELLY'S NEWS 


207 


one of the bullwhackers present at the attack. 
Notwithstanding this, Chevrin protested his inno¬ 
cence, and defended himself with extraordinary 
energy and passion. At another time he might 
have been acquitted; but the jurymen wished to 
satisfy everybody, the rich people as well as the 
miners. Instead, therefore, of condemning him to 
death, as the former hoped, they sentenced the 
accused to four years’ imprisonment, a punishment 
which seemed very severe to the latter. 

When this news reached Miss Sidney, her anger 
and indignation knew no bounds. But seeing that 
no one approved her sentiments,' she buried them 
in her own breast, determined that henceforth she 
would have no confidante but Nelly. At the very 
time that the good sisters believed their pupil calm 
and resigned, she was forming a violent resolution. 
Since the law would not avenge her, she would take 
justice in her own hands. She nevertheless remained 
in the convent, awaiting the time of her emancipa¬ 
tion. At last Miss Sidney was free. She calculated 
that her mother’s murderer would soon finish his 
sentence, When Chevrin came out of prison, he 
would be expelled from the Territories of the United 
States: the right of residence is always refused to 
aliens who have served a term in penitentiary. Well! 
she must find out what would become of the wretch— 
in what country he would seek a refuge. Distrust¬ 
ing everybody else, Florence requested Nelly to 
remain in New York until the convict should be 


208 


SUCH IS LIFE 


liberated. Then the victim’s daughter would com¬ 
plete the work she had undertaken. 

Miss Sidney had formed no definite idea of the 
punishment she would inflict on the assassin; but 
she reasoned like an American who by atavism as 
well as by education accepts Lynch-law as a neces¬ 
sity. A French woman would not have understood 
this animosity, for she is taught from infancy to 
respect the verdict of the law. Over there* on the 
contrary, it i§ scorned by public sentiment. It is 
a state of soul somewhat similar to the Corsican; 
the vendetta exists in different degrees in all young 
nations. 

This is why Miss Sidney refused to marry. A 
husband would not have understood her savage de¬ 
termination. This gentle girl, with a sensitive 
and tender heart, retained her filial adoration immac¬ 
ulate. And now Nelly had come to Florence to 
say: "Francis Chevrin has returned to France; I 
saw him on the steamer that brought me. I know 
him, I have spoken to him. And the hour you have 
so long awaited has at last struck.” 


VII 


THE PLAN OF REVENGE 

The next morning, Nelly aroused her young mis¬ 
tress early. 

“Now, Mademoiselle,” she said, “you must tell 
me of yourself. What have you done since our sep¬ 
aration? I thought you intended to remain in Rome 
until my return; and suddenly I received your let¬ 
ter announcing your departure for Paris.” 

Miss Sidney had to satisfy her confidante’s curi¬ 
osity. She told of the pleasant life she had led 
in Italy, of the welcome she had received from her 
own countrymen, and finally of the lively friend¬ 
ship that existed between herself and Madame Sal- 
bert. At this name Nelly started. 

“Madame Salbert, did you say, my dear mistress?” 

“Yes; do you know her?” 

“No, I do not know her; but the name awakens 
many recollections within me! Do you not re¬ 
member hearing the name also?” 

“Do I remember!” cried Florence, looking at 
Nelly in astonishment. Then she added, with a sad 
smile, “Do you think I could forget the gentleman 
who accompanied poor mamma and you on that ter¬ 
rible journey? When I first saw the name in large 
14 209 


210 


SUCH IS LIFE 


letters on the boards of the Apollo Theater, I shud¬ 
dered. Could the singer, whom all Rome was ap¬ 
plauding, be a relative of the noble man who defend¬ 
ed you so bravely? How could I find out? But when 
I met her at the United States Minister’s reception 
I already knew that my suspicions were groundless. 
Madame Salbert’s maiden name was Mademoiselle 
Montfranchet. She was married to M. Aristide 
Duseigneur; and when I asked her why she had 
assumed this fictitious name, she replied evasively.” 

Nelly sighed. Once more she lost the hope of 
meeting her companion of other days, whom she 
had nursed and watched so devotedly in that sad 
hospital room. Miss Sidney had now become sad 
once more. Seeing her mistress thoughtful and pre¬ 
occupied, the faithful servant was troubled. 

"Then, Mademoiselle, this great artist is your 
friend? And have you nothing more to tell me? 
You blush—I guessed it! You are so pretty and 
charming that all Parisians must be in love with 
you! " 

"Hush, Nelly. Why do you speak to me so? Do 
I belong to myself? When you used to say to me 
in New York, Tf only you do not cease to love me 
after your marriage/ I always answered, T shall 
think of myself only when I have avenged her who 
is no more.’ My task is not yet accomplished." 

"It soon will be, Mademoiselle; but allow me to 
return to my subject: Can you swear that a new 
sentiment has not entered your heart? I know you 


THE PLAN OF REVENGE 


211 


too well, I love you too tenderly, not to read your 
secret in your limpid eyes. Have you then lost 
confidence in your little Nelly?” 

Florence allowed her head to fall on her friend’s 
shoulder with a sigh. It was a delicious tableau 
to see these two women united by a common im¬ 
pulse of affection, 

'Ah! you are still the only one on whom I rely. 
How often during the last few weeks, I have 
wished to have you near me. If you knew! I have 
so much need of sharing my secret with some one.” 

"You are weeping, Mademoiselle!” 

"I suffer. Do you understand, Nelly, I am very 
unhappy? He loves me, I love him; I might become 
his wife—and I repulsed him—choked down the im¬ 
pulses of my heart that drew me toward him! How 
often, when speaking of love, I told you of my young 
girl dreams. The ideal of happiness for a woman is 
to belong to an adored being. . I do not understand, 
I never will understand, those who marry at hazard, 
as if giving one’s self once was not for life. When 
you exclaimed that I should marry a prince, how 
I laughed, do you remember? For to me the word 
prince evoked ridiculous ideas. We see so many 
of those great lords in the United States who try 
to rebuild their shattered fortunes with our dow¬ 
ries. My ambition did not soar so high. All I 
asked of Heaven was, to meet a young man who 
would love me as I would love him. The world 
amuses me but little: to me happiness is embodied 


213 


SUCH IS LIFE 


in the quiet life of two beings, before the children 
come; and later in the joy of seeing these little 
beings, born of your flesh, grow up around you. I 
have no wish to marry an American. The richest 
of them is ambitious to acquire more money; and I 
do not want the man whose name I shall bear, to 
have his thoughts distracted from me by other pre¬ 
occupations. I caressed all these dreams without 
the hope of ever realizing them, and I lived peace¬ 
ably with the memory of my dear mother.” 

Florence stopped a moment. She was becoming 
excited little by little as she spoke, and a bright 
light burned in her eyes. 

"I reflected a great deal since yesterday,” she re¬ 
sumed. ‘‘I could not sleep last night, and I recalled 
your words. How can I punish my poor mother’s 
murderer? If we were in America, my task would 
be an easy one. The ranchmen of the Far West 
are the only judges of these desperadoes who wan¬ 
der over the prairie. I could have delivered this 
Francois Chevrin into their hands by force or ruse, 
but in France I am powerless. Moreover I do not 
want the crime to be punished by another crime. 
Where can I find a man who will risk his life to 
carry out my oath? Who will accept a combat with 
this bandit? he who loves me, alone, will consent 
to such a sacrifice.” 

Nelly began to understand Miss Sidney’s plan 
to make herself the prize of this terrible game; 
to provoke a combat in which the conqueror, as in 


THE PLAN OF REVENGE 


213 


the middle ages, would be awarded with the hand 
of the woman he loved. 

“Forgive my smile, Mademoiselle," said Nelly; 
“but really, I find your project a little too romantic. 
You will find no knight ready to take up your 
grievance. Young men of to-day are neither gener¬ 
ous nor enthusiastic enough to provoke a duel in 
reprisal of justice. You forget that Francois Chev- 
rin has paid his debt to society. He has acquitted 
himself in the eyes of the law if not in yours.” 

As Florence did not speak, Nelly resumed more 
slowly: 

“I have never struggled against this idea of ven¬ 
geance. When you conceived it, you were recover¬ 
ing from a terrible illness; for two weeks your 
mind had been obscured by delirium. It was then 
that I first saw you, and in entering your service I 
swore that I would be faithfully devoted to you. 
When you told me of your dreams, I then believed 
that there still remained cerebral excitement which 
time would obliterate. Years have gone by, and 
you are still the same. You bade me remain in 
New York and watch the assassin. I obeyed. But 
the more I think of it, the less I wish to see you 
succeed, unless—" 
f “Unless?" 

“Does he to whom you alluded a little while ago 
—he whom you love and who loves you—does he 
know your secret thoughts?" 

“No. Why should he know them?" 


214 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"And you refused him?” 

"Yes—alas!” 

"He must be worthy of you, for you would never 
choose a man who was not brave, noble and good. 
Tell him all. Reveal your secret to him; and tell 
him you have sworn to never belong to any one un¬ 
til the Willow-Creek crime is avenged. If he 
really loves you, if his passion is sincere, he may 
perhaps reply, ‘I accept.’ Nevertheless, I doubt if 
he will make this reply, for again I repeat, these 
generosities and enthusiasms are not heard of in 
our days; but, however—if he should consent—” 

"I have thought of it,” sobbed Florence; "but 
it frightens me. To risk his life”— 

"You would then risk the life of a man you do 
not love? Then your cause is unjust and bad!” 

Florence buried her face in her hands. 

"You are right, Nelly. As a daughter, I have the 
right to avenge my mother; but in exchange for 
the sacrifice I shall ask a husband, I must sacrifice 
myself. I will call Roland to my aid—” 

Nelly gave such a violent start that the young 
girl stopped short. 

“What is the matter?” she asked in amazement. 

"Forgive me, Mademoiselle; a foolish idea, an 
absurd idea, crossed my mind. RolandT—he whom 
you love is called Roland?” 

“Yes; he is Alice’s brother, that friend whom 
I met in Rome.” 

Nelly started from her seat. 


THE PLAN OF REVENGE 


215 


"His name is Roland, and his sister has assumed 
the name of Salbert! Oh! Mademoiselle, Mad¬ 
emoiselle—” 

Nelly was so overcome by emotion that she could 
say no more; the words choked her. She guessed 
all! Florence, without knowing it, loved the one 
who had so bravely defended Mrs. Readish. What 
joy for Miss Sidney when she learned the truth! 
The young woman no longer dreaded the revelation 
of her mistress’ secret. A brave and good man like 
Roland Salbert would understand her feelings. And 
yet she might be mistaken! She did not dare speak. 
She then plied Florence with questions, and listened 
anxiously to her replies, trying to discover what 
resemblance existed between the Roland of to-day 
and the Roland of other days, and what mysterious 
links united the present with the past. She tried to 
form a certainty from Miss Sidney’s confidences. 
But finally, carried away by her emotions, she told 
all her suspicions to Florence. 

"Impossible!” exclaimed the young girl. "Such 
happiness could not be reserved for me! That the 
one whom I have chosen should be the man who so 
bravely defended my mother! That the impulse 
which carried me toward him should come from 
my instinct and my heart at the same time.” 

"Believe me, Mademoiselle, fate has placed in 
your path the only man who can understand you as 
you wish to be understood, who can love you as you 
wish to be loved! ” 


216 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“But it is impossible’” repeated Florence. 

“Do you wish to know? Send for him at once.” 

“Nelly! " 

“I must see him! And whatever changes time 
has made in him, I shall recognize him; even by 
the sound of his voice. If Roland Montfranchet 
is really Roland Salbert, I will say that your work 
is assuredly just, and that Heaven inspires you!" 

She did not reflect that if the Creator sometimes 
inspires human actions, it is rather to aid his 
justice than to insure the happiness of his creature. 


VIII 


THE RECOGNITION 

Roland had not seen Miss Sidney since the pre¬ 
vious day. The hours passed slowly and sadly. A 
great void had suddenly come into the life of this 
man whose heart was filled with an irresistible pas¬ 
sion. “I shall never see her again,” he repeated to 
himself bitterly. In vain did he recall Alice’s 
consoling words; he had believed them for an in¬ 
stant, and now he reproached himself for his illusion, 
calling it a stupidity. His sister was only soothing 
his despair, merely glossing over Florence’s refusal, 
when she spoke of her sacrifice of herself to an im¬ 
aginary duty. How long this day would be, since 
he could not go to Passy; since he could not enjoy 
the daily happiness of listening and talking to her! 

Ah, well! he would struggle against himself, and 
triumph over his cowardice. Work alone could 
bring forgetfulness and appease the storm raging 
in his heart. 

Roland’s first occupation every morning was to 
look after his mail. He methodically classified 
his letters; placing aside those which he answered 
himself, and jotting down instructions for his secre¬ 
tary on the others. Montfranchet had scarcely be- 
217 


218 


SUCH IS LIFE 


gun his task when he saw an envelope that made 
his heart beat fast. Florence’s writing! Could 
Alice be right after all? He hastily broke the seal 
and read the letter. It was very short—only four 
lines written in a trembling hand—but very elo¬ 
quent. The young girl requested an interview. 

An interview ! His sister was then right! Florence 
loved him ! or she would never have written. She 
would have considered their parting as definitive. 
What had she to say to him? Did she wish to recon¬ 
quer him to impose new suffering? Impossible. 
Florence understood Roland’s energy: she knew him 
to be ardent and resolute. Having confessed his 
love, he could only return to, her as a fiance. But 
how could he believe that the young girl had changed 
her intentions in so few hours? If she were not 
sincere the previous day, she had a duty to fulfill. 
She had perhaps repulsed Roland, believing her¬ 
self strong enough to sacrifice the promised hap¬ 
piness. Then succumbing to her love, she recalled 
him. All these thoughts rushed through his brain, 
unbalanced by a violent love. How long the hour 
of rendezvous was in coming! 

“What did I tell you?” cried Alice when she 
saw the letter. “My affection for you is too deep 
to deceive me. Florence will be your wife. You 
can judge of her love by the answer she gave you 
yesterday and by the letter she wrote this morning. 
The poor child tried to silence her heart, and when 
you had gone she suffered the same tortures as you. 


THE RECOGNITION 


219 


Was she then to remain alone, and lose you for¬ 
ever? ” 

At two o’clock Roland reached Passy. He was 
much troubled and agitated, feeling that this inter¬ 
view would decide his fate. Florence was very pale, 
and her eyes burned with a feverish brightness. 

“I feared you would not come,” she said with a 
forced smile as she extended her little hand. 

“Knowing me to be your friend, Mademoiselle, 
how could you doubt that I would hasten to obey 
your summons?” 

“Take this seat beside me as usual,” she said 
gravely, “and promise to forgive me for the pain 
I caused you.” 

“Forgive you?” 

“I was wrong yesterday; I should have been more 
frank with you.” 

She was looking at him with her pure eyes, in 
which could be read all her sincerity. 

“You told me that you loved me, Roland; I love 
you also!” 

“Florence!" 

“I beg you to hear me to the end. Before you 
answer me, I want you to know me as I am. We 
met one evening in your sister’s box. You pleased 
me at once. I felt a singular impression when you 
said to me: ‘It seems to me that I am not a stranger 
to you, and I imagine that I have known you for a long 
time.’ I always believed that two beings destined 
by Heaven to be united cannot be strangers to each 


220 


SUCH IS LIFE 


other. They may have never met, yet they know 
each other. Then you came to my home: I studied 
and understood you. We have ideas and sentiments 
in common. When I discovered that invisible links 
united our hearts, I should have reacted against my¬ 
self and you. I should have flown from a happiness 
that seemed impossible.” 

"Impossible! do you again pronounce that word?” 

"I was weak. What will you? I am but a child— 
a poor child who cannot triumph over herself. And 
yet a sacred duty separated me from you. Listen 
to me, Roland! You believe me an orphan like so 
many others. No. A young girl is usually free when 
she has lost her parents and is left alone in the 
world. Well! I am not. I belong to the dead. 
My mother succumbed to the most abominable of 
crimes, over there in America. Her murderer has 
undergone only a ridiculous punishment, and I 
have sworn not to marry until I have avenged her 
death. ” 

As Roland listened he felt a strange pain in 
his heart; but he did not yet understand. 

"Do you begin to understand the truth?” she 
went on. "A frail woman like me can do nothing. 
I wanted to^ intrust my revenge to the man who, to 
obtain my hand, would be generous enough to risk 
his life against that of the murderer. This was the 
reasoning of a little girl who was very naive and 
somewhat romantic. It is so easy to form projects 
when one does not love; but the day that the heart 


THE RECOGNITION 


221 


is awakened, reason becomes a slave. I loved you. 
Then I said to myself that if I asked of you such a 
sacrifice, I would not have the strength to accept 
it to the end.” 

She stopped for a few moments, then contin¬ 
ued: 

‘‘It was then that I tried to break all links be¬ 
tween us. I repulsed you. When you left me yes¬ 
terday, it seemed as if all my happiness went with 
you. Could I open my heart to you? Could I cry 
out: ‘Here is my secret, share it with me!’ My 
past did not count for you. I dated in your exist¬ 
ence only from the day that I met you. You dated 
in mine only from the day that I loved you. So 
I believed, at least. Suddenly—” She was smil¬ 
ing now, and a happy light shone in her eyes— 
"See, Roland, we are united by a strange fatality. 
I believed you a stranger to my former existence, 
and you are mixed in it by a tragic event.” 

She was still smiling, and he now foresaw the 
frightful revelation that was coming. His reason 
protested, but his instinct was stronger than his 
logic. He intuitively knew what her next words 
would be. 

“A friend revealed the truth to me, and I learned 
that I already owed you my gratitude before we met. 
Think of my joy when I heard that it was you who 
so heroically defended my poor mother.” 

Miss Sidney arose,and going to the door leading 
into the boudoir she cried: 


222 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“Come Nelly; look! Is Roland Montfranchet 
really Roland Salbert?” 

“It is he, Mademoiselle! “ exclaimed Nelly, as she 
rushed to the young man and kissed his hands. 

Roland had recoiled, livid and horrified. It 
was not Nelly that he saw suddenly appearing before 
him, but it was Mrs. Readish. He believed his 
victim vanished, forgotten; and this inexorable 
specter now arose before him to curse him! He 
threw up his arms as if to drive away this avenging 
vision, and fell back into his seat, crushed and 
overwhelmed. Florence and Nelly thought him 
overcome by the suddenly revived memories of the 
past. After all these years he again saw the sinister 
scene—the drama of the prairie. 

Ah! how good and courageous you were, Monsieur 
Roland!” continued Nelly. ’’HowoftenI have told 
you of that terrible event, Mademoiselle. Alone, 
alone against that enraged, drunken, furious band, 
he rushed forward to defend us. He fell, struck 
by a bullet, while protecting with his own body that 
one whom, alas! he could not save." 

By a terrible effort of will, Roland gradually 
recovered his calmness and lucidity. He felt the 
clear intuition that he was lost if he abandoned him¬ 
self to this agitation, which seemed inexplicable to 
the two women. Would not his weakness and the 
trembling of his voice astonish them? 

“You—you Florence,” he stammered—“you Mrs. 
Readish’s daughter!” 


THE RECOGNITION 


223 


Miss Sidney was transfigured. Her face was 
radiant with love and happiness. 

“Oh! how much I love you, Roland, and how 
much I admire you, also, ” she said. “Was I mistaken 
in saying that fatality had destined us for each 
other? The man whom I love is the man to whom I 
owe most in the world! I repulsed you yesterday that 
I might not reveal my secret, and it was no secret 
to you! Have I the right to ask of another what I 
can ask of you—to be my support, my aid, my 
avenger?” 

He had recovered his calmness, and was now ab¬ 
solute master of myself. 

“I belong to you,” he replied. “Do with me as 
you will. And you, my good Nelly, you who saved 
me, be my friend as in the past. But you spoke of 
punishment, Florence; you spoke of the criminal 
who had suffered but a ridiculous penalty. I be¬ 
lieved that—” 

He did not dare go on; feeling that he was tread¬ 
ing on unknown ground, and fearing to betray him¬ 
self. The terrible situation in which he found 
himself was complicated by circumstances of which 
he was ignorant. He adroitly interrogated Miss 
Sidney, and was astounded at her revelation. What 
a strange confidence! How could this gentle girl 
conceive such a savage thought? He did not at all 
understand this feminine character. He believed it 
sufficient to encourage this filial exaltation to direct 
and lessen it. Florence talked on, naively telling 


224 


SUCH IS LIFE 


of the joys and hopes of her heart. She could now 
become Roland’s wife; there was no obstacle to 
their union. Oh! what a delightful life they would 
lead! Her young girl dreams were assuming reality. 

She seemed to have forgotten her oath to the dead 
to abandon herself entirely to the chaste delight of 
loving and being loved. Why should not Roland 
now realize all his projects? Were they not both 
rich? The banker Montfranchet could well dispense 
with business cares and anxieties, to again become 
an idler. He was silent, trying to listen, and un¬ 
able to understand; with a forced smile on his lips, 
he was striving to fight against his growing terror. 
The more Florence spoke of the future, the.deeper 
Roland sunk into the past. His eyes were fixed on 
the young girl; but it was not her he saw; it was the 
other , the victim. She whom he believed forever 
buried from sight now arose from her grave to seize 
the assassin and drag him down with her! This sen¬ 
sation was so painful, so unendurable, that his 
oale face and the feverish brightness of his eyes 
startled Miss Sidney. Once more Roland made a 
violent effort to recover himself. 

"Pardon me,” he said almost inaudibly. "After 
enduring my sufferings with energy, I am weak 
before my happiness. Think that yesterday I be¬ 
lieved you were lost to me forever! and to-day 
I refind you!—I find you again, and soon you will 
be my wife—my wife! " 


IX 


PHILOSOPHICAL REASONINGS 

When Roland left Florence, it was with a sigh 
of relief. At last he could recover his faculties and 
face the frightful reality. “Florence Mrs. Read- 
ish’s daughter!” These words sounded like a knell 
in his ears. The marriage was impossible. He 
had robbed, murdered; and never for a moment 
had remorse entered his heart. Each time he re¬ 
membered Sacha’s death, and the skillful robbery 
that followed it, he applauded his success. The 
smiling fortune exonerated him in his own eyes. 
But, notwithstanding his assurance, in spite of his 
strength of mind, he would not dare marry the 
heiress of his victim and audaciously defy nature 
and reason. 

“No, no; I can never do it," he thought. “I do 
not repent having strangled a useless, wicked, half- 
insane woman. Why should I repent it? It was an 
involuntary act. Moreover, it is a law of humanity. 
The weaker is suppressed by the stronger, the para¬ 
site disappears to make room for the laborious. 
But if I consummated such a marriage I would go 
beyond the limits of my right.” 

As he reflected, an inexpressible pain rent his 
225 


l 5 


226 


SUCH IS LIFE 


heart. He must then resign himself to the loss 
of Florence! What! that adorable creature would 

i 

[not be his wife! He would tear down with his own 
hands that dreamed-of happiness, and that child, 
that young girl whom he loved, who loved him, 
would go from him, and scorn him perhaps—not un¬ 
derstand why he refused to marry her after all he 
had said! Poor Florence! Would he have the cour¬ 
tage? was he master enough of his will to make 
(the sacrifice? He had suffered so much the pre¬ 
vious day, when he believed himself the toy of a 
coquette! Could he again endure such torture? 

When he reached home, Roland gave orders that 
no one should be admitted, not even his sister 
nor Aristide, and he then locked himself in his 
study. He knew that if Alice were admitted, 
she could not be deceived; she would immediately 
guess that an unforeseen calamity had come upon 
him. Roland was struggling between two impossi¬ 
bilities—marrying Miss Sidney, or losing her. 

“Let me reason calmly,” he thought. “Do I feel 
any remorse for my actions in the philosophical 
sense of the word? No! Remorse is a hollow expres¬ 
sion, in the sense given it by spiritualists. I have 
already proven to myself that I was not responsi¬ 
ble when I strangled Sacha. The blood that flowed 
from my wound benumbed my faculties. Hugh- 
lings Jackson declares that in great commotions the 
will is violently dissolved. Even more, he has 
noted this observation, conforming to the theories 



PHILOSOPHICAL REASONINGS 


227 


of Herbert Spencer: ‘A man, half paralyzed, hav¬ 
ing lost the voluntary movements of a part of his 
body, does not lose the automatic movements. * It 
was half paralyzed. And the guilty one is not I, 
the thinking creature; it is I, the unconscious au¬ 
tomaton. That is true. But the theft followed 
the crime. Having recovered my reason and the 
full possession of my will, I profited by this theft. 
There was, therefore, a total eclipse of t e moral 
sense. 

"Why should I not accept Maudsley’s theory? The 
absence of the moral sense may ‘be a congenital vice 
of the moral organization. ’ Do we not know that 
the conscience—since I am forced to use the word 
—is perverted and sometimes destroyed by an ill¬ 
ness, a fever, or a wound? I was a prey to very nat¬ 
ural physiological phenomena: First, resolution of 
my will; then, automatic impulsion; I threw my¬ 
self on that woman. There is my crime excused. 
Then as I was wounded, probably attacked by a 
brain delirium, my moral sense was obscured; and 
there is my theft excused like my crime.” 

Notwithstanding the subtile work of his thought, 
the illogism of his pretended logic was apparent to 
him. Who can say that these carefully constructed 
reasonings were not a form of remorse? for after 
all, if he conceded the irresponsibility as to cer¬ 
tain accomplished facts, that irresponsibility ceased 
as to the consequences of these acts. Roland ad¬ 
mitted, that once cured, once more the master of 


228 


SUCH IS LIFE 


his will, he had kept the benefits of his theft com¬ 
mitted when that condition of will no longer existed. 

"I could not do otherwise,” he argued. ’’Com¬ 
mon prudence commanded me to act thus. An 
awkwardness would have ruined me. How could I 
explain the possession of the four bank-notes of 
four thousand pounds each? It was inadmissible 
that Mrs. Readish should have confided them to me. 
Therefore I must have stolen them. But when? 
Before or after the attack on the log-house? After, 
evidently, when the victim lay unconscious. Once 
the first suspicion awakened, the coroner would have 
had a second. He would have reasoned that I had 
murdered to rob, and not that I had robbed because 
I had murdered. That money was the basis of my 
fortune. Granted. I should have returned it. But 
to whom?” 

Roland stopped short. A ray of light appeared, 
very faint at first, but it grew little by little. To 
whom should he restitute this money, if not to Miss 
Sidney, who was her mother’s sole heiress? How¬ 
ever, he could not say to her, "This is yours, not 
mine.” To send the four hundred thousand francs 
anonymously, presented inevitable dangers also. 
The messenger might speak; the post would know 
the sender’s name. Then what was to be done? 
what was to be done! But his happy destiny per¬ 
mitted him to reconcile his reason with his heart. 
By marrying Miss Sidney, he would share with her all 
he possessed. Here was the only logical conclusion 


PHILOSOPHICAL REASONINGS 


229 


to this sinister adventure! Again prudence com¬ 
manded him to violate the laws of nature. Florence 
would be unable to understand his refusal to be her 
husband. She would remark that this refusal coin¬ 
cided with the discovery of her secret. As long as 
Roland was in ignorance of her birth, he loved her 
and wanted her to be his wife. The day when he 
learned that she was Mrs. Readish’s daughter, his 
love crumbled; and the fianc£ took flight. 

This specious reasoning seemed irrefutable. As 
Florence’s husband he would return the stolen 
fortune to her. Even more, he would return it to 
her increased colossally. After all, why should 
the laws of nature forbid a murderer to marry his 
victim’s daughter? The conquerors of old married 
the daughters of the kings they had slain. The 
daughter of Darius entered Alexander’s bed, and 
Pyrrhus was dying of love for Andromachus. What 
was right is still right. Humanity changes, not the 
knowledge of good or evil. And as if to prove to 
himself how just his reasoning was, Roland tried 
to persuade himself that his meeting with Florence 
was a stroke of fate. Two days previous, he had 
accused fortune of deserting him, believing in the 
eclipse of his good luck. On the contrary, good 
luck remained faithful to him, and fate continued 
to protect him. This marriage would put an end 
to everything. Roland had murdered the mother; 
he would make reparation for his crime by insur* 
ing the happiness of the daughter. And, besides. 


230 


SUCH IS LIFE 


he would return to the daughter the money stolen 
from the mother. 

This man, who had been born honest, but un¬ 
protected from temptation by a religious belief, did 
not perceive the immorality of his reasonings. He 
searched for a mysterious link in the successive 
events of his life without knowing that these events 
were indeed soldered together, not to exonerate him, 
however, but to punish him! The human being can¬ 
not commit one crime only. The first brings the 
second, the second the third. Evil follows evil, as 
good follows good. Our actions are similar to those 
always flaming lamps of the Latin poet: 

“Et quasi cursores vitai lampada iradunt." 

The ever-relayed runners that never stop, are our 
thoughts, our decisions, our temptations, our im¬ 
pulses; for all faults committed, great or small, re¬ 
echo on our entire existence. Here below, there 
is neither fatality nor bad fortune, but logical and in¬ 
evitable deduction. Man is born free and responsi¬ 
ble. If he be subjected to hereditary impulsions, 
he is qualified to curb and conquer them. He en¬ 
deavors to absolve himself by invoking insanity or 
mental trouble. But, sooner or later, a voice deep 
within him makes itself heard, and sooner or later 
a remorse is born, grows and devours him. He who 
believes in nothing calls this voice fear; he who 
believes in God calls this remorse conscience! 


X 


THE MARRIAGE. 

Miss Sidney desired that the wedding should be 
very simple, having a horror of noise and bustle. 

“Why not avoid all display?” she said to Alice 
one evening. “It seems to me that these grand 
ceremonies are but satisfactions to our childish van¬ 
ities.” 

“You are quite right, my little sister,” laughed 
Madame Duseigneur. “But, then, I should have 
been much surprised if we were not of the same 
opinion. But remember my words: you refuse to 
obey the mandates of fashion, you will vex every¬ 
body. ” 

“ Oh! everybody! ” 

“You think I am exaggerating? It is evident that 
you do not know Paris. Parisians, my dear, are 
children and simpletons. They always bear a 
grudge against anyone who deprives them of an 
expected pleasure.” 

“Then, Roland and I are condemned to exhibit 
ourselves to these people like actors?” retorted 
Florence, with a pretty pout. 

Florence’s annoyance made Alice laugh again. 

“But, my dear child,” she said, “what are we all 
231 


232 


SUCH IS LIFE 


if not actors? Remember I am not speaking of 
myself, who am a double actress! The great secret 
of life, to be nearly spared by slander—I say 
nearly—is to never do anything but what is ex¬ 
pected of you. My brother occupies a high posi¬ 
tion; your own is not inferior, since you belong to 
one of the wealthiest American families. How 
can those simpletons of whom I spoke admit that 
you can do without them? 1 ' 

Florence was forced to accept the inevitable. 
With her never-failing good sense, Alice judged 
the world rightly. Everybody rejoiced when it 
was announced that Madame Duseigneur would give 
a great fete in honor of her brother’s marriage; but 
when it became known that banker Montfranchet 
was retiring from business, the sensation was still 
greater. The socitti fin de siecle , which loves and 
respects nothing but money, was much surprised, 
and almost shocked; men of finance especially, as 
they always hope to see their rivals ruined. 

Nevertheless, there were but few discordant notes 
in the concert of worldly praises. It is true that a 
few amiable friends took advantage of the occasion 
to give vent to a little spite, but the gossips in 
general found nothing to say. For to the respect 
inspired by Roland was mingled a little fear; and 
the Parisian really esteems only the persons he 
dreads. Woe to him who can be accused of “ bon 
garconisme"/ He is at once at the mercy of the 
wild beasts, like the innocent Christians of heroic 


THE MARRIAGE 


233 


times. After the ball celebrating the marriage con¬ 
tract, the congratulations were unanimous, and the 
women were obliged to disguise their jealousy. It 
was a brilliant success for Miss Sidney. Though 
always elegant and exquisite, the certainty of her 
near happiness lent her a new and irresistible 
charm. Her eyes sparkled with love and hope; 
their limpid transparency was lighted up by lumi¬ 
nous rays, like those reflections cf the sun im¬ 
prisoned in a sapphire. 

In the conservatory filled with rare plants, a 
group of guests was chatting gayly, and discussing 
the fiancee. 

"She is not bad looking,” said^Mme. Audiberte 
de Ganges, a pretty, vivacious brunette. "Unfortu¬ 
nately she will soon fade." 

"Why?” 

"Too blonde! I warn you, gentlemen, beware of 
these ethereal creatures who resemble ballad hero¬ 
ines. Their beauty is but a breakfast of sunlight.” 

Mme. Edmee de Boiscel, a very good woman, who 
possessed but little influence, was not so severe. 
She even praised Florence in very warm terms. 
But the Princess Polinska summed up the general 
opinion in a few concise words. 

"I do not say that Audiberte is mistaken,” she 
said, "but Edm£e may be right. Happiness is the 
best of cosmetics! A woman who has long years of 
happiness has long years of beauty. We some¬ 
times see a woman, already passt, almost faded, 


234 


SUCH IS LIFE 


suddenly recovering a temporary freshness and un¬ 
expected brilliancy! a miracle of love! ” 

At the same time these ladies were inexhaustible 
in their praises of Roland. He was now in the 
full bloom of his strength and intelligence. A very 
handsome man is sometimes very ridiculous; but in 
Florence’s fiance, one remarked the beauty of the 
face less than the harmony of features and ele¬ 
gance of person. His grave, thoughtful eyes were 
illuminated by a ray of his artistic soul. Having 
conquered his impatiences of other days, he now had 
absolute control over himself; and he struck one 
at first sight by the frankness of his quick, pene¬ 
trating glance., Outside of his intimate friends, he 
inspired that respect which is always accorded 
superior natures, unspoiled by pride. He pleased 
women because they wished for his admiration, and 
he pleased men because they desired his friendship. 

These were the reasons why the day after the 
ball, everybody predicted a future of always re¬ 
newed happiness to the two fiances. What could 
be wanting? Young, handsome, rich, full of life and 
health, united by a deep and durable love, they 
might have excited envy. But everybody knew the 
value of remaining on good terms with them. The 
opinion of society is always inspired by interest; 
and as the young couple were to reside in Paris 
after their marriage, all were eager to be invited 
to their grand receptions. People are always in¬ 
fluenced in their judgments by the hope of enjoying 


THE MARRIAGE 


235 


the luxuries of others. The church on the Avenue 
Victor Hugo was filled to overflowing by a brill¬ 
iant throng of invited guests and curious people. 
Madame Salbert and two more of the renowned 
singers of the Opera were to sing during the cere¬ 
mony. And the nuptial mass, which Florence would 
have desired so simple and modest, was trans¬ 
formed into a "Parisian event. ” "Parisian events" 
have this peculiarity: they make more noise and 
are sooner forgotten than others. For twenty-four 
hours the ceremony was the topic of conversation, 
then the public mind was taken up by an unex¬ 
pected quarrel in another household. As for in¬ 
stance, when by chance somebody asked in Mme. 
Rosenheim’s drawing-room if M. and Mme. Mont- 
franchet were traveling, nobody could answer. 

No one cared to know where Florence and Ro¬ 
land hid their happiness. They were completely for¬ 
gotten until the day when it would be useful to re¬ 
member them. 

To those who love, the forgetfulness of the 
world is half their happiness. 


XI 


THE HONEYMOON 

Irr that witty poem on a newly married couple 
entitled the “Petit Voyage,” Labiche has ingeniously 
depicted a trait of society which is not far from 
the ridiculous! The fashion dates from the last 
century. It was interrupted by the wars of the 
Republic and the Empire, but was eagerly resumed 
after the Restoration. How much society resem¬ 
bles a flock of sheep. Their individual habits are 
modified, but never changed. The basis remains 
the same. When a new generation springs up, it 
always seems to be wanting in imagination: it care¬ 
fully copies the dead generation it replaces. To 
deceive itself, it changes its style of hats from the 
cage to the melon shape, and wears plain dresses 
instead of puffed gowns. This great effort accom¬ 
plished, it drifts with the tide. Absurd customs 
survive because it is more unseemly to destroy them 
than to observe them. And thanks to this tacit as¬ 
sent, which is in fact but a lazy indifference, the 
“Petit Voyage” of Labiche is as true to-day as it was 
fifty or sixty years ago. 

Roland shared the opinion of this intelligent 

23G 



THE HONEYMOON 


237 


man, who considered this firmly rooted custom as 
a “barbarous and indecent principle." Two loving 
beings go scattering along the road their dearest 
souvenirs and their sweetest sensations. They must 
submit to the vuglar promiscuousness of chance meet¬ 
ings and the mercenary hospitality of hotels. And 
fater, when they have grown old and wish to evoke 
the by-gone days and recall their vanished youth, 
there remains nothing but an almost imperceptible 
perfume, like that of an evaporated sachet. 

A fortnight before his marriage, Montfranchet 
heard of the death of M. des Escalens, a gentleman 
farmer of Vaucluse, with whom he had business re¬ 
lations. His estate fell into the hands of distant 
cousins, who immediately offered the Chateau de 
Canourgues for sale. Roland at once made a bid 
for the dead man’s residence, to the great satisfac¬ 
tion of the heirs, who had not hoped to realize on it 
so promptly. He gave his agent carte blanche , and in 
a few days it was completely transformed. He was 
careful, however, to preserve the old furniture, the 
oak wainscoting, and the high marble chimney- 
places which are frequently found in the beautiful 
castles of Provence. 

Canourgues stands opposite the village of Gram- 
bois, in the midst of a forest of oaks, beeches anc^ 
venerable aspen trees. At the extremity of the 
park which ascends to the house in an impercepti¬ 
ble and regular slope, the road to the Tour d’Aigues 
stretches out like a long yellow ribbon. The land 


238 


SUCH IS LIFE 


of Vaucluse is wonderfully fertile; pines, cherry, 
olive, and mulberry trees grow in rich profusion, 
mingling freely at nature’s will—that generous pro¬ 
vider. Almost everywhere the oaks are decorated 
by the supple and vigorous ivy, which twines 
around the mossy trunks and high branches, then 
falls back in green cascades through the spreading 
leaves. The trees are so close together that they form 
a greenish dome overhead, through which a few pale 
rays of light scarcely penetrate. As one advances 
further into the park, an immense meadow, inter¬ 
sected by long trenches filled with water, presents 
itself to the view, exposing to the rays of the sun 
its yellow hay sprinkled with violets, marguerites, 
and buttercups. At the extremity of this meadow 
is abroad graveled terrace, with enormous Japanese 
vases in which arise imprisoned flowers. Here the 
beholder stops dazzled, to look at the fairy landscape 
that suddenly presents itself to the eye. Opposite 
is the village, perched on a high hillock, with its 
gray houses irregularly grouped one above the other, 
looking more like a fortified castle of the middle 
ages than a peaceful habitation of to-day. To the 
right and left extends a reddish plain furrowed by 
rivers, which are in turn dry and in turn rushing 
torrents, and which inclose it gracefully in the form 
of a circus. In the distance rises massive Luberon, 
with its steep and rugged slopes, lighted in violet 
tints by the sun’s rays. The ridge of mountains is 
clearly defined against a background of blue sky, and 


THE HONEYMOON 


239 


the transparency of the air is such that it seems as 
if by extending the hand one could almost touch the 
distant horizon. 

Provence is a country of old legends which have 
been transmitted through centuries, and are still 
related by the peasants in their evening gatherings. 
The village of Grambois has one of its own, and 
though inadmissible in an historical point of view, it 
has been piously handed down through generations. 

A hundred years before the time of Philippe le Bel, 
Grambois belonged to the powerful Templars who 
constructed their colossal fortress on the hillock. 
Foulquet, Bishop of Marseilles, was suspected of her¬ 
esy and forced to seek aid and protection from his dan¬ 
gerous neighbors. The Templars consented to receive 
the fugitive prelate, but on condition that he take 
refuge in the hermitage of Canourgues. Foulquet 
obeyed, and died there in the odor of sanctity, for¬ 
gotten by both men and the Pope. Such is the 
legend. History, however, is less poetic and more 
precise. Instead of being persecuted, Foulquet was 
a persecutor. It was he who preached most ardently 
the crusade against the Albigeois. He perhaps died 
at Canourgues, but loaded with years and honors, 
bearing the title of Archbishop of Toulouse, and sur¬ 
rounded by a terror that his bloody cruelties 
explained. 

When Philippe le Bel destroyed the order of Tem¬ 
plars, the hillock hermitage, and rich, fertile lands, 
fell into the hands of one of the king’s followers, 


240 


SUCH IS LIFE 


who was intrusted with the pursuit and extermina¬ 
tion of the rebels. So well was the order carried 
out, that the peasants still point out at one of the 
extremities of the park of Canourgues, a hillock on 
which not a tree grows nor a shrub takes root. The 
aspect of this sloping ground, with its barren brow in 
the midst of these richly wooded surroundings, pro¬ 
duces a strange impression. And the peasant adds 
in his musical patois that the land remains sterile 
because there were hanged to gibbets eighty feet high 
the last of the Templars of Provence. 

To-day the chateau, which dates from the last 
century, arises on the spot formerly occupied by the 
hermitage of the prelate. Two wings covered with 
red tiles extend on each side of a great court-yard, 
and are united by a slate-covered fa5ade which 
dominates the rest of the construction. At the angles 
of this fa£ade two high towers, with tops narrowing 
in the form of steeples, rise toward th<? sky. Flor¬ 
ence gave a cry of joyful surprise when they reached 
this paradise. Under this blessed climate the spring 
is a fete perfumed with nature, a perpetual enchant¬ 
ment of the mind and eyes. Leaning on the terrace, 
moved and silent, she allowed her eyes to wander 
on the mountains with reflections of amethyst over 
the green plains and on the golden hillock. This was 
where she would live the first weeks of her love, 
where she would taste the only absolute joys of her 
existence. 

“How good you are!" she said to Roland. “You 


THE HONEYMOON 


241 


would not scatter our souvenirs, and, thanks to your 
thoughtfulness, we shall never forget these delicious 
days. ” 

He made an effort to smile, and stammered a few 
words in a low voice. Since their departure from 
Paris, since they belonged to each other forever, 
these young people were filled with very different 
thoughts. Florence abandoned hersel f freely to her 
hopes. Her face,her eyes, her words, betrayed her 
radiant gayety, a superabundance of exquisite sen¬ 
sations. Roland, on the contrary, was thoughtful, 
preoccupied, almost sad. About the middle of the 
day, as they were walking slowly through the forest 
of Jas, Mme. Montfranchet stopped abruptly. 

“How silent you are! ” she exclaimed, with a shade 
of uneasiness 

Roland gave a violent start. He must prevent 
her from guessing anything! 

‘“Do not be vexed, my darling, and be kind enough 
to excuse me," he replied tenderly. 

“Excuse you? I feared I had displeased you!” 

He took his wife’s hand and kissed it ardently. 

“Now you are yourself again! ” she declared. “We 
are near the road; shall we return to the cha¬ 
teau? 

From that moment Roland again became the de¬ 
voted lover he had been the previous day. But in 
spite of all, a painful dread tortured him: the 
dread of the absolute intimacy which would unite 
him to his young wife. 

Such is Life 16 


242 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Why? It was that since forty-eight hours a ter¬ 
rible drama was upsetting this man’s life. 

After the marriage the newly-married couple had 
returned to the Avenue Friedland, where they re¬ 
mained until evening, receiving the congratulations 
of their friends. 

Then Alice and Aristide had accompanied them 
to the station, where they were left alone for the 
first time, in the parlor-car that was to carry them 
to the South. Nelly was to rejoin her mistress the 
next day. Until now no trouble or emotion had 
been revealed within Roland. During the first few 
hours of their journey he knelt before his young 
wife, tenderly clasping her hands, and telling her of 
his joy in having her for his own. One night more 
of waiting, and over there, in the charming solitude 
they had chosen, they would become one, of their 
own free will—lovers forever linked together by the 
holiest of ties. Florence allowed herself to be 
lulled by the charm of these caressing words. She 
smiled, happy in anticipation, proud beforehand to 
give herself to this master she adored. About one 
o’clock in the morning Roland persuaded her tolie 
on the sofa of the car; she laughingly resisted, say¬ 
ing she could not sleep. But when he had wrapped 
her warm furs about her, she closed her eyes, and 
had soon flown into the land of starry dreams. 

Roland was gazing at her lovingly. Suddenly he 
started back in horror! In the abandon of this slumber, 
Florence was the living picture of her mother. Mrs, 


THE HONEYMOON 


243 


Readish suddenly appeared before her murderer, 
arising from the grave to terrify this man who had 
never known remorse. When awake, the young woman 
scarcely recalled the dead mother. Only a fugitive 
resemblance existed between this fresh rosy face 
and the haggard countenance of Sacha, that pale 
face covered by fine and multiplied wrinkles. The 
daughter, with her blue eyes, clear and limpid as 
water, scarcely evoked a comparison with the mother, 
that morphinomaniac with dull and unsteady glance. 
But slumber produced a wonderful change. The 
tranquil features of the young woman, no longer 
animated by life, forced a remembrance of that other 
countenance with its uniform paleness, where the 
blood seemed to have ceased to circulate under the 
shriveled skin. As Roland contemplated Florence, 
he felt his terror increasing. Could it be the effect 
of a nervous fear? At times he believed himself 
the victim of a frightful nightmare; he again saw 
himself in the car with the mother as he now was 
with the daughter. In vain he tried to struggle 
against this obsession, to drive away the avenging 
vision, 

“I am mad—I am mad! ” he repeated to himself. 
“What can there be in common between this young, 
happy, smiling child and that haggard maniac?” 

Then he leaned over his wife to study her more 
closely in the oscillating light of the nocturnal 
lamp. The similarity of the two heads was still 
more striking in the obscurity, of the car. In the 


244 


SUCH IS LIFE 


daughter, as in the mother, the face formed an oval 
of absolute purity; the daughter, like the mother, 
had thick blonde hair, small white teeth, and beau¬ 
tiful hands. Roland shuddered. The woman he 
believed forever vanished lived again in another! — 
and that other was his wife; she bore his name, 
she would share his existence! For the first time 
this murderer felt his pride bend, and his haughty 
soul was humiliated. Was this, then, the punish¬ 
ment? He repulsed this fleeting thought. Punish¬ 
ment? That may be well enough for soft natures 
who allow themselves to be conquered by stupid 
remorses! He regretted nothing, and repented of 
nothing. The happy adventurer, whose hidden 
crime has succeeded, is but a fool if he punishes 
himself by bending meekly under the laws of con¬ 
ventional morals! And while he thus reflected, 
Roland tried in vain to tear himself from Florence. 

An invincible love attracted him toward the charm¬ 
ing child sleeping at his side. Again he contem¬ 
plated her, trying to prove that his eyes deceived 
him—that an unhealthy hallucination falsified the 
rectitude of his mind. In spite of himself, the fatal 
resemblance still asserted itself. The eyes, the 
hair, the hands, were the same! All night Roland 
remained there, trembling, horrified by the new 
thoughts that germed within him. It was morning 
before the extreme weariness of his body overcame 
the agitation of his brain, and he fell into a heavy 
slumber. 


THE HONEYMOON 


245 


When he awakened, the sun was high in the 
horizon. Near him, Florence was watching him, as 
he had watched her a few hours before. Had the 
nightmare taken flight? or did daylight suffice to 
dissipate his nocturnal terrors? Florence was her¬ 
self once more: the pure, brilliant, and joyous 
creature, who recalled in nothing the half-crazed 
morphi nomaniac. 

"I was dreaming,” he thought, while the bride 
laughingly declared that she was almost starved. 

When they reached Avignon, the bright morning 
soon effaced all sinister impressions, and Roland 
recovered his calmness and sang froid. In spite of 
Florence’s gayety, however, he remained thoughtful 
and sad. A victoria awaited them at Perthuis, and 
carried them rapidly toward the Chateau de Ca- 
nourgues. Mme. Montfranchet, intoxicated by the 
perfumed air, and enchanted by the picturesque 
landscape, abandoned herself to the impulses of her 
exuberant nature. It was only during their walk 
that Florence noticed her husband’s secret preoc¬ 
cupation; but as Roland pleaded fatigue, she was 
not alarmed. 

When they re-entered the chateau, he made an 
effort to be gay and loving—to enjoy his approach¬ 
ing happiness. And the will being all-powerful, 
the energetic man once more conquered the revolts 
of his mind. Nevertheless, as the shadows of night 
fell over the plain, he felt his dread returning. 
Would the second night be like the first? Would 


240 


SUCH IS LIFE 


the horrible hallucination return? But he strove 
to drive away these terrors, resolved to remain 
master of himself to the end. The husband and wife 
took refuge in the little boudoir attached to Flor¬ 
ence’s bed-room, and gave themselves up to their 
happiness. They looked into each other’s eyes, 
agitated and charmed—he already feeling the rapt¬ 
ures of his love; she blushing and happy. She was 
grateful to this master, who awaited until she gave 
herself to him freely. 

It was the night of their first intimacy, the 
supreme hour which even the coldest and most 
skeptical never forget. Roland clasped this adorable 
woman in his arms, and, with ardent tenderness, 
mingled with infinite sweetness, he murmured: 

“Oh, my darling! how I love you! 


XII 


THE SPECTER 

The apartments of the young couple consisted of 
two large bedrooms, separated by a dressing-room. 
When Roland re-entered his own room in the 
middle of the night, and found himself alone once 
more, he felt penetrated with happiness, impreg¬ 
nated with love. What rapture in the first caresses 
of a wife! Oh! how he worshiped this charming 
child! What an enchanted existence opened before 
these two beings, created for each other! Nothing 
now remained of the avenging vision, and of the 
accursed evocations. Roland shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders in disdain, scoffing at his insane hallucination. 

“My brain was over-excited,” he said to himself. 
“What madness to compare this perfect creature to 
—to the other! A family resemblance between them 
—that is all. Besides, it only appears during sleep, 
when the general expression of the countenance is 
altered and effaced.” 

Roland tried to soothe himself with this thought, 
but the incessant question recurred to him, “Would 
it be always thus if, at certain hours, Florence 
would inevitably provoke the remembrance of Mrs. 
Readish?” 


247 


248 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“No; impossible! I must have been dreaming 
last night. It will suffice to return to Florence 
now, to see at once.” 

He hesitated a few minutes; his wife would 
awaken, perhaps. Moreover, of what use, since he 
was now convinced of the inanity of his terrors? 

He must, however, prove irrefutably that these 
phantoms had forever disappeared. He opened 
the door softly, and crossed the dressing-room; 
then, raising the heavy curtain, he entered Flor¬ 
ence’s room. A rosy lamp diffused its uncertain 
light over the bed, the furniture, and the curtains. 
The young woman was sleeping, her head sup¬ 
ported on her gracefully bended arm. A light 
smile hovered on the half-opened lips, revealing 
the brilliant white teeth. The loosened hair had 
fallen on the shoulders, enveloping the beautiful, 
delicate body in a golden wreath. He could almost 
hear the violent beating of his heart as he walked 
slowly toward the bed, and leaned over her, as on 
the previous night, to study the features relaxed in 
slumber. 

It was with difficulty that he repressed the cry of 
horror that arose in his throat. 

The fatal resemblance appeared more vivid, more 
striking still! The dim light from the lamp cast 
gray shadows on the rosy skin, and accentuated the 
resemblance between the mother and daughter. 
Again Roland stood motionless, terrified; he wanted 
to fly, but could not tear himself away—he was, 


THE SPECTER 


249 


rooted to the spot by an inexpressible terror! At 
last he sunk into a chair, hiding his icy brow be¬ 
tween his hands. A sudden revulsion took place in 
the brain of this man, whose mind, until now so 
firm, proscribed hypothesis, and admitted only 
realities. To him it was no longer his wife; it was 
no longer Florence that slept there so peace¬ 
fully. 

No! it was the specter of Mrs. Readish, appearing 
livid and menacing! Suddenly the lovely, smiling 
child made a weary gesture. Roland feared she was 
awakening. By a desperate effort he finally tore 
himself from the obsession of this delirium, and 
rushed out. Alone—he was alone! Then this 
vision would return again—would return always ! 
He could not fly from Florence—he loved her too 
much; he could not remain near her, for the sight 
of the young woman maddened him. What could 
he do? Roland was stupefied before this crumbling 
of all his hopes, blindly interrogating his obscured 
reason. For a moment he was tempted to rush out 
into the night, to jump into the first train, to dis¬ 
appear. Ah! what! Disappear on his wedding 
night? No one could understand such an insane 
action. There are always people who insist on ex¬ 
plaining inexplicable things. They would ask why 
he had so suddenly abandoned his wife at the hour 
of supreme felicities—he, who loved her so much. 
Hitherto Roland had smiled scornfully at the 
thought that the hour would come when the bloody 


250 


SUCH IS LIFE 


past would arise from the grave. And now his old 
crime frightened him. 

“This is atrocious,” he thought; “I must sleep— 
repose is forgetfulness.” 

Stretched in his bed, somewhat calmed by the 
coolness of the sheets, he closed his eyes and 
awaited sleep. But sleep did not come. The un¬ 
fortunate man heard the hours strike slowly, one 
after the other, from the clock in his room; and he 
learned the excruciating tortures of insomnia. 

When Florence and her husband met the follow¬ 
ing morning, she uttered a cry of alarm at the sight 
of his pale face. 

“You frighten me!” she cried; "are you ill?” 

Roland knelt before her, and clasped her in his 
arms. 

“I love you,” he murmured in a choked voice. 
“You are my treasure, my world, my all. My life 
commenced by you, and will end by you! What a 
dream! to worship each other to that point that all 
other sensations disappear before the infinity of our 
kisses.” 

He spoke with such vehement passion that Flor¬ 
ence was reassured. She did not perceive that 
Roland was no longer the husband of yesterday, but 
another man, animated by different thoughts. As a 
happy fianc6, he asked of life only promises of hap¬ 
piness; as a happy husband he asked of it a forget¬ 
fulness of his frightful dreams. By degrees, the 
fresh, expansive, and sincere love of this radiant 


THE SPECTER 


251 


woman appeased the tumult of his over-excited 
brain, as the dazzling rays of the sun dissipate the 
damp mists. Florence expressed the wish of taking 
a long walk, and they set out immediately after 
breakfast. 

"Let us go and meet Nelly," she said. "The car¬ 
riage must have left Perthuis an hour ago." 

"Never mind, you will find her here on our return, 
my treasure," he interrupted. "Let us rather wan¬ 
der through that forest yonder, on the summit of 
the hillock." 

After a long ramble they stopped beneath the 
shadows of the thick branches, in the midst of the 
thousand inexplicable rustlings of nature at work 
in the expansion of spring. Under the mossy car¬ 
pet which they crushed under their feet could be 
felt the palpitation and life of myriads of flowers 
and invisible insects. Birds flew from branch to 
branch, and a delicious breeze softly caressed the 
great, silent oaks. Florence seated herself on a 
rock, and Roland threw himself at her feet. She 
told him of her past, of her convent life, and of the 
dream of her childhood. He listened without hear¬ 
ing. With eyes ardently fixed on her countenance, 
he contemplated her less to see her than to study 
her features. 

"Even when awake," he thought, "Florence re¬ 
sembles her . Her voice has similar inflections." 
And by dint of studying the eyes, the lips, the 
brow, Roland discovered strange and new similari¬ 
ties, which may have existed, but which his imag¬ 
ination magnified beyond reason. From this hour 


252 


SUCH IS LIFE 


his torture never ceased. It possessed him every 
minute, every second, like a demoniacal spell. 
At times he asked himself if he loved Florence 
or dreaded her? She fascinated and frightened 
him! Too energetic to allow himself to be con¬ 
quered without struggling, he fought against the 
terrors and revolts of his mind. He knew that his 
love alone could triumph over his madness; and 
he exaggerated the transports of his passion. Since 
his arrival at Chateau de Canourgues, Roland had 
not slept. The insomnia of the first night returned 
each succeeding night. In vain he tried to weary 
his body by long, rapid walks and violent exercises; 
slumber obstinately evaded him. His passion for 
Florence received the immediate repercussion of 
all these cerebral shocks; Roland underwent the 
ardor of ever-renewed desires which satiety could 
not quench. And these transports enraptured and 
frightened her. She felt that she was uniquely 
loved, uniquely adored; but notwithstanding this, 
she remarked odd contradictions in her husband's 
character. The expression of his eyes would ab¬ 
ruptly change; and in the depth of this gaze fixed 
upon her, the young woman saw the agitation of an 
indiscernible thought. 

For three months they inhabited their retreat; 
far from the bustle of the world, forgetful of 4II 
that might distract their thoughts from each other. 
Twice a week Alice wrote to her brother, who an¬ 
swered by a few brief lines. But Mme. Montfran- 
chet was less reserved and more communi cative. 


THE SPECTER 


253 


She secretly confided to her sister-in-law the ever¬ 
growing fears that Nelly strove to reason away. 
Mme. Montfranchet’s ever-wakeful affection was 
alarmed by these incomprehensible disorders she 
remarked in Roland: a persistent insomnia and a 
lack of appetite. For in spite of his long daily 
walks over the plains, his nervousness did not di¬ 
minish. 

“Donot be alarmed, my dear mistress,” said Nelly, 
consolingly; “you are—loved too well. That is all. 
So you are not to be pitied. When M. Roland mar¬ 
ried you, he brought you a virgin heart. This inde¬ 
fatigable worker scarcely knew the allurements of 
pleasure. In guarding himself from light fancies, 
he reserved all his adoration for you.” 

Florence blushed, and shook her head; for a few 
moments she felt reassured, but her uneasiness soon 
returned. To Nelly, Roland was still the romantic 
hero dreamed of by all women. She always saw 
him as in those by-gone days when he protected 
and defended her. But for him, she would have 
been driven away by Mrs. Readish, she would 
never have known Miss Sidney; and this had been 
her greatest happiness—even more, her salvation. 
To day her future, and that of her little sisters, 
was assured. Too devoted to her mistress not to 
share her anxieties, she also noticed the physical 
change in M. Montfranchet. His face was thin, 
and his energetic blue eyes seemed enlarged by the 
emaciation of his hollow cheeks. In repose, his 



254 


SUCH IS LIFE 


features had an expression of harshness that some¬ 
times astounded Florence. 

“Provided he is not lonesome in our dear soli¬ 
tude!" she said, sadly. 

Nelly laughed, and ridiculed these naive appre¬ 
hensions. 

“Lonesome?” she cried. “Oh! madame, one is 
never lonesome with a heart so full of love as his! 
See how attentive he is to you; noticing your 
hair, toilets—did he not ask you yesterday to brush 
back your hair and coil it at the nape of the neck? 
although it is not at all the style." 

Although Roland wanted Florence to be herself, 
he imagined that a modification in the way of 
dressing her hair, a change in her toilet, might, for 
a few hours, obliterate the fatal resemblance that 
pursued him everywhere. 

Summer had come. The young couple now went 
out only in the evening, when the shadows of 
night expanded their freshness over the plain. 
Since they inhabited the chateau, the peasants 
had learned to know and love them. Everybody 
at Grambois, Tour d’Aigues and La Bastide des 
Jordans, knew that all their wants would be re¬ 
lieved at the chateau, and that none extended the 
hand in vain. Florence was adored for her natural 
sweetness and kindness. When a child was ill, 
they hastened to- her for advice; when discord en¬ 
tered a household, she had no rest until harmony was 
reestablished. An atmosphere of respectful sym- 



THE SPECTER 


255 


pathy enveloped them as they passed on horse-back 
in the violet penumbra of twilight, elegant and 
graceful, like a romantic couple whose love has not 
been disturbed by the realities of life. 

About this time, Roland commenced to suffer from 
painful oppressions, which made him gasp for breath 
for hours at a time, almost suffocating him. Flor¬ 
ence called in the physician from Perthuis, who 
after a short examination pronounced the disorder to 
be angina pectoris. This did not surprise Mont- 
franchet, as he had been twice refused for this 
reason by the military physicians. The oppression 
soon disappeared under the physician’s treatment. 
Then Roland acquired the habit of taking that 
drug which overcomes insomnia. Every night 
he mixed a few grains of opium with,his tobacco, 
and smoked until a delicious numbness invaded 
him. Sleep returned, and was soon followed by 
appetite. This was an almost happy period, dur¬ 
ing which the hallucination disappeared. There 
only remained an instinctive fear like the dread 
of the unknown. With autumn came the hope 
that he was definitely cured. The energy of his 
constitution had taken the ascendency, and he 
again recovered a relative tranquillity. It was 
physical, but not moral health. 

After the Willow Creek crime, Roland believed 
hifnself stronger than men and fate. For years he 
had unflinchingly faced the future. Now the future 
frightened him. He alone could give a name to 


256 


SUCH IS LIFE 


his nervousness: it was remorse—the remorse 
which he audaciously denied, the remorse which 
during nights of insomnia had gnawed his heart 
with its venomous teeth. 


PART THIRD—REMORSE. 


Remonin. 

“Remember the words of an old philosopher—good is stronger 
than evil.” 


Mrs. Clarkson. 

“Why, then, is good so often overcome by evil?” 

Remonin. 

“Because we do not watch long enough.” 

Alexandre Dumas (L’etrangere, Act III.) 


I 


FRANCOIS CHEVRIN 

We never belie our destiny. From his childhood 
Francis Chevrin exhibited a passion for horses. 
On Sunday, during the cool spring evenings, he 
furtively escaped from the paternal shop at Ternes 
to attend the fair of Neuilly. No spectator was 
more assiduous in his attendance at the traveling 
circuses. During the week the precocious boy 
never left the employes of the omnibus company or 
the stables of the Place Saint-Ferdinand. He was 
continually in the stalls, and voluntarily helped 
the grooms in their work. 

M. Chevrin, retail mercer, was deeply wounded 
in his pride by his son’s inclinations. He dreamed 
an ambitious future for the heir to his name. Yes, 
17 257 



258 


SUCH IS LIFE 


to his name. Ah! what disillusion. And how rudely 
he fell from the height of his hopes! Francis 
ran away from school, and refused to enter college! 

“What will become of you, unfortunate boy?” 
asked the author of his being, with a noble gesture 
that a tragedian might have envied. For a long 
time, Francis disdained to reply; but one day, an¬ 
noyed by this unceasingly repeated question, he re¬ 
plied audaciously: 

“I want to be a rider!” 

The bones of Chevrin, for fifty-five years a mer¬ 
cer, rattled in their sockets. 

“Arider! What is that?” thundered the old man, 
in alarm. 

Francois, who was biting the end of a whip, re¬ 
plied with the grave admiration of Raphael speak¬ 
ing of Perugin: 

“It is to be like M. Loyal!” 

And M. Chevrin knew that it was all over. In 
fact, one fine morning, his son disappeared. He 
was, in turn, groom, omnibus-driver, coachman for 
the Compagnie Generale; scornful of the mercer 
shop at Ternes, having obtained an employ that 
flattered both his natural tastes and his instinctive 
laziness. 

For many years, the Perche breeders have trans¬ 
acted a great deal of business with the Far West of 
the United States. Americans at first made use of the 
native horse, but long distances, rough roads, and 
the irregularity of the climate soon compelled the 


FRANCOIS CHEVRIN 


259 


farmers to have recourse to foreign countries. Un¬ 
til now the stallions of l’Eure et Loire and of 
POrne are the ranchmen’s favorites. Our peasants 
export each year to the value of seven or eight mill¬ 
ion francs. This shower of gold has sufficed to 
assure the prosperity of several French departments 
in spite of agricultural failure. The Norman 
profits by this unexpected windfall. Two or three 
times a year he sends a few of his horses to the 
Far West of the United States, under the care of 
strong, vigorous young men. 

One of these breeders met Francis Chevrin one 
day by chance, and engaged him. What easy and 
agreeable work. To oversee model stables, wander 
over the beautiful and rich prairies of Lome; to 
lead a life of apparent work, and do almost nothing, 
in fact! The Parisian was realizing all his hopes. 
One day his employer proposed that he should take 
a dozen stallions and mares to Dakota. The voy¬ 
age is long and tedious. The passage worries the 
horses greatly, and the man who has charge of 
them must exercise constant watchfulness and care. 
Francis was easily seduced by the adventurous 
side of the expedition. He was delighted at the 
idea of visiting those strange lands where the prej¬ 
udices of old Europe have not yet penetrated. In 
deed, the breeder could not have made a better 
choice; for this boy, who hated books and a regu¬ 
lar existence, was neither stupid nor dishonest. 
He passionately loved the animals confided to his 


260 


SUCH IS LIFE 


care, and his employer felt certain that he would 
perform his task satisfactorily. 

When Chevrin reached the United States a new 
life was revealed to him. He met the cowboy— 
that hero whom Bret Harte has sung! The Paris¬ 
ian soon became the companion of this wanderer 
of the Far West, so cleverly depicted by the Baron 
de Mandat Grancey—always on horseback to 
watch his master’s herds. Francis soon imbibed 
the vices of his comrades, who were not inconven¬ 
ienced by scruples. One does not remain in such 
surroundings with impunity. Natural honesty must 
be deeply rooted to protect efficaciously against the 
worst examples. This Parisian, devoid of bad in¬ 
stincts, but indolent, not vicious, but easily tempted, 
descended rapidly to the level of his compan¬ 
ions. He became a drunkard, debauchee, and liar, 
spending in three days the earnings of a month, 
and always ready to steal when money was wanted. 
Having entered the service of the stage-coach com¬ 
pany, he was thus present at the log house attack. 

But why had suspicion fallen on him rather than 
on the bull-whackers. First, because a few farmers 
had accused him of cattle-stealing; then, one of 
the three cowboys summarily lynched by the ranch¬ 
men, had declared that they stole, but did not kill, 
and that Francis Chevrin was the only one who 
could have committed the crime. Race prejudice, 
perhaps. However, a fortnight after the crime, 
Francis was imprudent enough to sell one of the 


FRANCOIS CHEVRIN 


261 


pearls worn in Mrs. Readish’s ears, to a jeweler 
in Deadwood. Had it not been for Florence’s fil¬ 
ial affection, the guilty one would never have been 
pursued. But the young girl was determined to 
avenge her mother. He was, therefore, arrested, and 
brought before the tribunal at Deadwood. There 
he defended himself with passion and energy. He 
admitted his presence at the attack on the log- 
house, he admitted having stolen Mrs. Readish’s 
pearls; but he swore before God that neither he nor 
his companions were guilty of her death. A 
United States jury, especially in 'the Far West, is 
always accessible to mysterious influences. Now, 
the cowboys threatened to burn a few houses if 
fheir comrade was punished; on the other side, 
Florence’s guardian did not spare money. Divided 
between fear and interest, the Deadwood jury found 
the means of displeasing everybody. They pro¬ 
nounced the accused “guilty as to the theft; inno¬ 
cent as to the murder,” and the court sentenced 
him to four years of penitentiary. American judges 
make easy arrangements with heaven! 

Francis’ rage never abated during those years 
of prison life. He forgave neither judge nor jury, 
and uttered terrible threats against the stupid jury¬ 
men. The adventurer’s reasoning was quite logical. 

“Either I assassinated Mrs. Readish,” he said to 
the jailer, “and deserve to be hanged, or I did not 
assassinate her, and should be given my liberty.” 

This undisciplined man, whom constraint exasper- 


2C2 


SUCH IS LIFE 


ated, endured a veritable martyrdom in the prison at 
Sioux City. Habituated to immense space, he 
fretted incessantly within the four narrow prison 
walls. For the first time in his life, Chevrin reflected, 
turning over in his mind the fatal adventure which 
landed him in prison at the age of twenty-five. 
Haunted by this fixed idea, he recalled all that had 
passed in its smallest details. He remembered the 
surroundings of Willow Creek, the attack and pil¬ 
laging of the log-house. Leaving the baggage of 
the three travelers to his companions, he entered 
the habitation with three determined men. He 
again saw the sinister room in which he found Mrs. 
Readish; at her side lay a young man, wounded by 
a bullet. He had hurriedly torn open the woman’s 
bodice, searching for jewels, £md appropriating the 
rings, watch, earrings, and necklace. He had then 
supposed that Mrs. Readish had merely fainted 
from fright, but he now understood all. The un¬ 
fortunate woman was dead at the time. Francis 
had robbed a corpse. Dead? But killed by whom? 
Here the vagabond imagination of the Parisian 
butted against the unknown. Knowing nothing of 
the travelers, nothing of their existence or their 
past, it was impossible to build up a theory of any 
kind. Nevertheless, a vague instinct told him that 
the crime must have been committed by the parties 
in the log-house, or the victim’s traveling companion. 

Day and night, Francis turned these thoughts in 
his brain. Like all persons whose mind has but 


FRANCOIS CHEVRIN 


263 


one object to pursue, he resumed, one by one, hour 
by hour, these agitating reflections. Then, little 
by little, his rage, which had formerly been directed 
against his judges, turned against the cause of 
his misfortune. At last the four years passed away, 
and the prisoner completed his term. Before leav¬ 
ing the prison, the jailer notified him that he must 
leave the Territory within a week, but Chevrin 
asked and obtained an extension of forty-eight 
hours. His intention was to return to Willow 
Creek, revisit the log-house, and question its inhab¬ 
itants. Would they still be the same after so many 
years? 

At last the prison doors opened, and the captive 
was free. He at once took the train for Pierre, and 
without stopping there, pushed on through the prai¬ 
rie. Fortunately, the log-house had not changed 
owners. Its occupants were an Irish couple, pious 
Catholics, loved and respected by the ranchmen and 
their neighbors. Impossible to suspect these peace¬ 
able people of such a crime. However, the Paris¬ 
ian questioned them, knowing well that neither 
would recognize the robust cowboy of other days 
in this pale man with burning eyes and heavy 
black beard. The adventure had left ineffaceable 
traces in the memory of this couple. Indeed, they 
remembered the three travelers of that fatal night; 
a lady named Mrs. Readish, accompanied by her 
maid, Nelly, and her interpreter, Roland Salbert. 
The husband and wife had read all the newspaper 


264 


SUCH IS LIFE 


accounts of the crime, and the subsequent trial of 
the murderer, and his just condemnation. The 
Irishwoman, being very loquacious, and unaccus¬ 
tomed to finding a listener, never wearied of talk¬ 
ing. Poor Mrs. Readish! She had left a daughter, 
it was said, ”an interesting orphan,” who was finish¬ 
ing her education in a New York convent. The 
child must be pretty if she resembled the mother, 
for the honest woman remembered the traveler 
well. A beautiful, elegant, fair woman—and she 
must have had a very bad temper; oh! yes, very 
bad indeed! because, just a few minutes before 
the attack on the log-house, a violent discussion 
had been heard from above. 

Francis listened with passionate attention. Each 
word confirmed his suspicion. The guilty man was 
the interpreter, that Roland Salbert who escorted 
Mrs. Readish. Did not a dozen convincing proofs 
point that way? The woman was dead when he en¬ 
tered the room. Who had killed her, if not this 
man? Where could he find this interpreter? It 
is true, the Parisian’s theory did not rest on a very 
solid basis, but a sure instinct guided and supported 
him. He would return to France. Once in Paris, 
he would discover the man he suspected. Chevrin 
did not know by what means, but incoherent and 
confused projects rushed through his excited 
brain. 

The name Salbert is not a common one. By dint 
of searching right and left, interrogating this one 


FRANCOIS CHEVRIN 


265 


or that one, Francois was convinced that sooner or 
later he would find this man. 

During his four years of prison life, Chevrin had 
lost his father and mother, and a small inheritance 
awaited him over there. Not much—perhaps a hun¬ 
dred thousand francs or so, economized cent by 
cent by the daily savings of a long life of work. It 
was enough to live comfortably in the suburbs or 
in the faubourgs of Paris. There he would eagerly 
pursue his aim. The thirst for vengeance now 
haunted his brain. He must find Roland Salbert at 
any cost! The adventurous side of his character 
was attracted by the intensity of a unique thought. 
The former cowboy would recommence a man-hunt, 
not on the prairie, but in the very heart of the capital, 
in the midst of detectives and police officers. And 
when he had run down this mysterious game, he 
would know by his appearance if he were accusing 
Salbert of an imaginary crime. An interpreter is 
usually a poor man or an outcast. It would be easy 
for Chevrin to link himself with this unknown man, 
to make him talk, and study him patiently. He 
would thus destroy or confirm his suspicion. And, 
if confirmed, what punishment would he inflict on 
this wretch, for whom, he, an innocent man, had 
suffered! Would he deliver him into the hands of 
justice? No, indeed! He knew justice too well! 
He knew of how many errors and stupidities it is 
capable. No, Francois Chevrin’s vengeance would 
be of a different kind. It would be at once bold 
and refined; worthy at the same time of an auda¬ 
cious cowboy and a clever Parisian. 


II 


THE RESCUE 

"Aida” was to be played this evening, and Alice 
reached the theater early that she might see to a 
few changes she had ordered in her dressing-room. 
The young woman never dined when she was to sing, 
but simply took a light lunch at six o’clock, and had 
supper with her husband after the performance. 
Celebrated artists always excite mysterious passions, 
and Madame Duseigneur derived a great deal of 
amusement from the burning epistles remitted to 
her by the dignified Janitor of the Opera. She 
usually read and laughed over them while her maid 
brushed her hair and helped her to dress. 

"Madame has a great many letters this evening,” 
said the maid while her mistress ran hastily over 
the epistles of her unknown admirers. 

"Oh! always the same thing! I am a great artist 
—I have talent, etc., etc.” 

"But Madame has a great many lovers whom she 
has never seen, whom she does not even suspect, 
and who gave us quite a comedy," rejoined Helen 
gayly. 

"Indeed, Helen?” 

"If Madame only knew! The gossips speak of a 
2G6 


THE RESCUE 


267 


great admirer of Madame’s since a couple of weeks. 
Madame remembers the stage carpenter’s strike?” 

“Yes, what of it?" 

“Well, they threatened from day to day to leave 
the place if their wages were not increased. Then 
the manager engaged all the men he could find. 
Among them he remarked a very clever fellow 
named Franfois Levrault. He soon learned the 
trade, and as his conduct was good, he was kept on 
after the strike was settled. He also is a great ad¬ 
mirer of Madame.” 

“How ridiculous! " 

“When Madame sings, he leans against a column, 
and looks at her as if in a trance, with his mouth 
wide open. We can see him from the flies, and it 
is very amusing! ” 

The most dignified woman in the world is always 
flattered by admiration. Alice had this admirer 
pointed out to her, and found that Helen had not 
exaggerated. He was a well-built, good-looking 
young man; expert at his trade, and of exemplary 
good conduct. He was perhaps a little too inquis¬ 
itive concerning his idol, for he questioned every¬ 
body on the past habits and family of Mme. Sal- 
bert. One morning he was chatting over a glass 
with a companion in a tap-room, and as usual the 
great singer was the subject of his queries. 

“True enough,” remarked his companion, “you are 
a new-comer at the Opera, and do not know Mme. 
Salbert’s brother, the famous banker Montfranchet. 


268 


SUCH IS LIFE 


It seems she has retired from business. He recently 
married, worships his wife, and renounced work 
forever. I can well understand that! ” 

Francis questioned him more closely, as if not 
daring to speak constantly of his idol, he wanted to 
speak of those near her. His companion related 
the story told about Madame Salbert and her 
brother. They had reached Paris without friends or 
protectors, and by force of will had won celebrity 
and fortune. 

"Yes, my dear fellow,” resumed his comrade, 
"that Montfranchet was obliged to work for his liv¬ 
ing, and now he goes with the richest and most in¬ 
fluential. In those days, he was so unfortunate that 
he even changed his name, simply calling himself 
M. Roland, or—but what is the matter?” 

Levrault had turned deadly pale, and was looking 
at his companion in stupefaction. 

"Ah! that brother of—of Madame Salbert—is 
called Rol—Roland!” he stammered in a trembling 
voice. 

"Yes; what of it?” 

Levrault muttered a few incoherent words, and 
abruptly changed the conversation. After a short 
time his companion left him, and Chevrin—he had 
prudently concealed his identity under an assumed 
name—was left alone. 

"It is he! ” he thought. "I am sure of it now. 
But how am I to get near him? From what I hav< 


THE RESCUE 


269 


learned, he is now in the south with his young wife. 
Shall I await him here, or go over there?” 

Francis remained in the same place the whole 
afternoon, lost in deep thought. From that day he 
tried to get nearer to Madame Salbert. No one was 
surprised at this, as it was an open secret that he 
admired her ardently. Chance brought the denoue¬ 
ment so much desired by Chevrin. One evening as 
Alice was leaving the stage she passed near the 
footlights, and her dress caught fire, and in a mo¬ 
ment she was enveloped in flames. Some took 
flight, while others screamed, but no one came to her 
assistance until Chevrin dashed through the horror- 
stricken spectators, and seizing Madame Salbert in 
his arms, smothered the flames, unmindful of his 
own danger. Alice was saved, scarcely hurt. But 
Francis was dangerously burnt. He refused to 
be taken to the hospital, and was carried to his 
small apartment, 103 Avenue des Ternes. Alice 
was anxious to show her gratitude, and often went 
alone or accompanied by her husband to visit the 
sick man, trying to cheer him and alleviate his 
sufferings. 

“Decidedly, it is of some use to inspire passion 
in fools,” said Ren£ Salverte to the singer. “Had it 
not been for Levrault, you would have per¬ 
ished." 

“You should not jest," she replied. “Iam deeply 
touched by the poor fellow’s devotion, and I am 
racking my brains to find some way of showing my 


270 


SUCH IS LIF% 


gratitude to him. Do suggest something. I believe 
he is too proud to accept money. Besides—” 

“I will see to that,” interrupted Aristide. "The 
man who saved my dear Alice deserves a reward, 
and he shall have it.” 

Aristide believed he had found the best means 
of paying his debt. For a long time, Roland 
had been complaining of the concierge , but the fear 
of doing worse prevented him from dismissing 
him. Why should not Aristide, who had full power 
during his brother-in-law’s absence, offer this posi¬ 
tion to Fran5ois Levrault? The concierge of to-day, 
in his cozy lodge in fashionable houses, is one of 
the happiest beings of creation. Besides, he does 
not call it a lodge. This vulgar expression would 
probably offend his dignity. It is an apartment 
which a retired officer would be happy to call his 
own. 

So, one afternoon Aristide set out alone for the 
Avenue des Ternes, and made his offer to the sick 
man. When Francis heard this unexpected propo¬ 
sition, he closed his eyes for fear he might betray 
his joy. At first Aristide thought that Alice’s 
savior hesitated, so he dwelt on the advantages and 
benefits of such a position. It was finally agreed that 
Francis would enter on his duties as soon as he 
recovered. At last Chevrin was nearing his aim! 
He would be under the same roof with the object 
of his vengeance! 


Ill 


THE SHADOW ON THE WALL 

M. and Mme. Montfranchet did not return to Paris 
until spring. Their honeymoon had lasted one year; 
one year of continued happiness, troubled only by 
Roland’s illness. Florence was beginning to feel 
reassured, but Alice found him much changed and 
emaciated. 

“What! you have made up your mind to return?” 
said Aristide sarcastically. “We were beginning 
to think we should never see you again.” 

“Oh! you may laugh,” retorted the young woman; 
“but I have spent the twelve happiest months of 
my life in the Chateau de Canourgues.” 

She was radiant with health and happiness. Her 
beauty, refined by love, was now dazzling. 

“Don’t be alarmed, little sister," she said to 
Mme. Duseigneur, when they were alone. “Roland 
has been ill—very ill indeed. All danger has now 
disappeared, however, although the insomnia is still 
too frequent. But you must insist that he accepts 
a serious consultation.” 

“I do not feel as reassured as you do," replied 
Alice; “the brightness of his eyes frightens me. 
As you have never left him, you are not as good a 
271 


SUCH IS LIFE 


212 

judge as I, who have not seen him for a year. But 
tell me, are you happy?” 

“More than happy. Every hour, every second, 
seems like an enchantment. Your brother is adora¬ 
bly good, and his intelligence is equal to his 
heart. I owe him exquisite sensations, ineffaceable 
emotions. If you knew how happy we have been 
—I may tell you all, for I have no secrets from 
you. I have no desire for children. Oh! how 
grateful I am to you, my dear Alice, for having 
encouraged the love that I inspired in him ! But 
don’t be jealous; he worships you as much as ever, 
and he speaks of his affection for you every day.” 

After their return the mansion of the Avenue 
Friedland was soon animated with life. Alice, 
like all great artists, was absorbed in incessant 
work, which weaned her from all pleasures, and 
left her but little time for society. Roland, on the 
contrary, could open the splendor of his home to the 
Parisian world. Florence merited homage, and he 
wanted the woman who bore his name to be the 
envy and admiration of all. In Paris it is not 
enough for a woman to be beautiful: she must 
have a frame worthy of her—a frame that will en¬ 
hance and display her charms. Before her mar¬ 
riage she had only met the habitues of Alice’s draw¬ 
ing-room. She now appeared like a future queen 
of the Parisian world. A few grand dinners and 
a garden party sufficed to make her celebrated. 

“Do you know that you are having a veritable 


THE SHADOW ON THE WALL 


273 


triumph?” said her husband, smiling. "When you 
drive through the Bois in your landeau, or when you 
enter a box at the theater, everybody turns to look at 
you. ” 

‘‘Does that make you love me more?” 

‘‘Ah, coquette! you know that is impossible.” 

‘‘Then, all these triumphs are entirely indifferent 
to me. ” 

Notwithstanding the numerous visits and recep¬ 
tions, Roland and Florence did not interrupt their 
affectionate intimacy. Every morning they went 
out riding, as they had done at the Chateau de 
Canourgues, and in the evening they went out to¬ 
gether into society, or to the theater. In this busy 
round of pleasure they scarcely remarked Francis 
Chevrin, who seldom left his lodge, was very atten¬ 
tive to his duties, and was universally loved by the 
servants. Nelly alone could have recognized him, 
and she had remained at Vaucluse, as M. and Mme. 
Montfranchet intended to return there in September, 
and they would not allow strange hands to profane 
the temple of their dearest souvenirs. 

Roland was perfectly satisfied with this active 
and taciturn fellow, who was modest in his manners, 
and of an obliging disposition. He helped the 
valet or the gardener, but the greater part of his 
hours of liberty he spent in the stables, watching 
and advising the grooms. 

‘‘This Levrault is an expert horseman,” said 
Roland one day to his wife. ‘‘He must have done 

Such is Life 18 


274 


SUCH IS LIFE 


long service in the cavalry; perhaps even worked 
in a riding-school." 

Francis accepted all compliments with a modest 
air, merely replying that he was the happiest man 
in the world. But a secret impatience was gnaw¬ 
ing at his heart. Would that hour, so long de¬ 
sired, never come? For he no longer doubted. The 
servants had related the history of Montfranchet, 
somewhat exaggerated and distorted, it is true, but 
it nevertheless retraced the great lines of Roland’s 
adventurous life. He was the man who had accom¬ 
panied Mrs. Readish in the Far West—that was 
established beyond a doubt. Everybody knew of the 
Willow Creek tragedy. And, like the spider weav¬ 
ing his web, Francis awaited, watching patiently 
for the propitious hour. It came, as always, when 
he least expected it. 

One evening, a little before midnight, Alice 
missed one of her diamond bracelets, and wished to 
send a trustworthy person to the Opera in search 
of it. The servants had all retired early, being 
worn out after a grand reception given the previous 
evening; and as she could not dispense with 
Helen’s services, Mme. Duseigneur intrusted the 
mission to Francis. The ex-cowboy felt a thrill 
of joy. He at last had a pretext to enter the 
house when everybody was asleep. 

Since his illness Roland retired very late, spend¬ 
ing his sleepless hours in the painting-gallery or 
the library, reading and thinking. How often 


THE SHADOW ON THE WALL 


275 


from a distance Francois had watched the light 
burning behind the closed blinds. Ah! if he could 
only penetrate into that well-guarded house, all 
would be over in a few moments! When he re¬ 
ceived the order to go to the Opera, he saw the op¬ 
portunity of executing his long-cherished plan. 

"I shall be in my room," said Madame Duseign- 
eur; “you can knock at the door, and give the 
answer to Helen.” 

“Very well, Madame.” 

An hour later Chevrin returned with the brace¬ 
let, and handed it to the maid. Then he walked 
straight to the enemy, his heart scarcely troubled, 
only agitated by the constant thought of his un¬ 
avenged hatred. The gallery and library were de¬ 
serted; a single gas-jet burned in each, casting 
the yellow light on the gilded frames and dull 
binding of the books. The man felt a pang of dis¬ 
appointment. Would not the other come? Then 
he remembered that M. Montfranchet did not leave 
his apartment till very late. Francois determined 
to wait. He glided behind the floating drapery, 
and crouched silently against the wall. 

As chance would have it, that evening Florence 
came to her sister-in-law’s apartment very late. 

“I feared to find you asleep,” she said to Alice; 
"you are so lazy when you do not sing.” 

“I am nervous. By the way, I have found my 
bracelet.” 

“Come and chat with us,” rejoined Florence. 


276 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“Roland has another attack of insomnia, and I shall 
stay up with him as long as I can keep my eyes 
open.” 

“Willingly,” assented Alice. 

Once in Florence’s boudoir, the three began to 
discuss the physician’s opinion. He advised M. 
Montfranchet to travel for ten or twelve months, 
saying that long sea-voyages have a beneficial in¬ 
fluence on the nervous system, as they appease 
cerebral excitations, and induce sleep. Their con¬ 
versation was prolonged far into the night, and it 
was three o’clock in the morning when 41 ice arose 
to return to her apartments. 

“Helen will think I am dead!" she exclaimed. 

The young woman kissed her brother and sister- 
in-law affectionately, and disappeared in the long 
gallery that traversed the entire house. She carried 
a small candle, which cast its faint rays on the 
curtains and paintings. As she reached the library, 
she stopped abruptly: the door was opening as if 
impelled by a mysterious spring. Then a shadow 
glided against the wall. Alice was brave. She 
placed her candle on the table, and walked straight 
before her, calling out, “Who is there?” Stupe¬ 
fied at this unexpected apparition, Francis tried 
to fly; but the young woman caught him by the 
collar, and screamed for help, while her nervous 
arm shook the wretch she had not yet recognized. 
During the short struggle a dagger fell on the car- 


THE SHADOW ON THE WALL 


277 


pet; then only did she realize that she was in the 
presence of an assassin. 

"Help! help! ” she cried. 

"It is I—I, Madame," stammered a trembling 
voice. 

"You?" she cried in bewilderment. 

Alice stepped back, and taking up the candle, 
looked before her. Francis!—what was he doing 
here? . How did he come to be in the house in the 
middle of the night, and armed with a dagger? 

Madame Duseigneur realized that she was in no 
personal danger. She thought of robbery, but not 
murder. Moreover, the man seemed more fright¬ 
ened than herself. 

"You are a wretch!” she exclaimed. 

"Madame—” 

"Silence! You were admitted into this house on 
my recommendation. Your conduct was good, and 
your employers had confidence in you. You abused 
that confidence to obtain admittance into the house 
at this nocturnal hour to steal—” 

The adventurer staggered as if he had received a 
blow. 

"Steal? me?” he stammered. 

"Then, what are you doing here? I will rouse the 
servants and send for the police." 

Chevrin felt that he was lost. Since his adven¬ 
ture in Deadwood, the word police sounded lugu¬ 
briously in his ears. To him it signified arrest, 
trial, condemnation, and prison; and prison terri- 


278 


SUCH IS LIFE 


fied this man, who loved free air and liberty above 
all. 

"Spare me, Madame, I entreat you,” he murmured 
in a supplicating voice. 

"I must know what this means,” she declared. 

' There is some mystery here that I must know. 
Speak!” 

For a moment a great struggle went on in Fran- 
9ois’ soul. By speaking, he would put off his re¬ 
venge for years, perhaps—but finally the fear of the 
galleys triumphed over his hatred. 

"Very well, Madame,” he replied, "I will be frank, 
but on one condition.” 

"What is it?” 

“That when I leave this house, I shall be free 
from all pursuit.” 

Alice agreed to this only too willingly. She had 
threatened him with the police merely to force a 
confession from him. She knew that an arrest in 
her house would be almost a scandal. Wishing, 
moreover, to avoid the visits of reporters in search 
of news, the young woman took an energetic resolu¬ 
tion. 

“Walk on in front of me to my apartments,” she 
said. “If you are sincere, I will be lenient.” 

Helen, who was still awaiting her mistress, was 
sound asleep in the ante-room of the boudoir. The 
noise of the opening door awakened her with a start, 
and she thought she must still be dreaming, when 


THE SHADOW ON THE WALL 


279 


she saw her mistress enter, accompanied by Fran¬ 
cois. 

"I want to have some conversation with Lev- 
rault,” said Madame Duseigneur. “Wait for me 
here.” Then she added in a lower tone: “Be ready 
to answer my first call, my first cry.” 


IV 


THE ACCUSATION 

Chevrin resolved to conceal nothing. He com¬ 
menced the picturesque recital of his misfortunes, 
from the time he deserted the paternal house, to 
his adventures in the Far West. Alice listened at¬ 
tentively, captivated at first by an inexplicable in¬ 
terest, then fascinated by this drama of life. Fran¬ 
cois told of his life as a cowboy—that strange vag¬ 
abond life of the adventurer—of the wild gallops 
over the prairie when the ranchmen’s herds es¬ 
caped, and were in danger of being lost. The 
young woman instinctively felt that she was about 
to hear something unexpected; that this long re¬ 
cital was but a prelude to a terrible revelation. 
Suddenly she felt a thrill of horror—he had reached 
the attack on the log-house, and Mrs. Readish’s 
death. 

"You are Francois Chevrin! ” she cried, in a quiv¬ 
ering voice. "You changed your name, like all 
guilty persons who have a crime to conceal! ” 

"No, I am not guilty!” he replied, indignantly. 
"It is because I am innocent that I have entered 
this house! ” 

These words seemed so extraordinary, that Alice 
looked at Francois more attentively. She could 
280 


THE ACCUSATION 


281 


not doubt this man’s sincerity. With flashing eyes 
and quivering lips, he stood before her; not with 
the mien of a criminal caught in the act, but proud 
and defiant, like an unfortunate who defends him¬ 
self against a false accusation. 

Chevrin’s story bewildered Alice. What! he ac¬ 
cused Roland, her dear Roland, of being Mrs. 
Readish’s assassin! The young woman was not 
even moved by anger; her brother was too high in 
her estimation to be suspected of such a crime. 

"You must be mad!" she said, shrugging her 
shoulders. "So mad that I doubt your sincerity." 

"Then, Madame, why did I enter the Opera? It 
was to be near you. I am worth a hundred thou¬ 
sand francs, and need not work for my living. But 
the name of Salbert struck me, and I wanted—" 

Alice understood all. 

"Enough! Go! ” she interrupted, coldly. 

Francois bowed awkwardly, and went out. Mad¬ 
ame Duseigneur called her maid, and prepared to 
retire. But when she had dismissed Helen, and 
found herself alone once more, she tried in vain to 
sleep. A hundred conflicting ideas filled her troub¬ 
led brain. What odd contradictions take place in 
life! She knew her sister-in-law’s secret thoughts. 
She knew why Nelly had been left in New York; 
and she also knew that Florence’s filial affection 
was still vigilant—that she was watching this 
Francis Chevrin to inflict punishment upon him 
as her mother’s murderer. And now this man 


282 


SUCH IS LIFE 


claimed to be innocent of the crime! Even more, 
he attempted to revenge himself on Roland for the 
unjust punishment he had undergone. 

Then little by little, Alice’s mind resumed its 
tranquillity. It was perhaps better that things 
should have turned out thus; she could now warn 
her brother to beware of Francis. There was 
nothing more to fear from him, no doubt; but the 
adventurer must have been half-crazed to conceive 
such a project, and it was only ordinary prudence 
to warn Roland. 

Early next morning Madame Duseigneur sent 
Helen in search of news. The maid returned much 
astonished: Francis Levrault had given his keys 
to the valet and gone without explanation. 

Like all persons troubled with insomnia, Roland 
always slept late in the morning; and as Alice did 
not wish to disturb him, Florence agreed to send 
him to his sister’s apartments as soon as he awak¬ 
ened. It was eleven o’clock before he presented 
himself. 

"You wished to speak to me?” he said to Alice 
as he kissed her. 

"Yes, I do, indeed!” 

‘ My God! what is it? How pale you are this 
morning.” 

"I ought to be. What I have to tell you will as¬ 
tonish you—but has Florence gone out?” 

"Yes; she went out for a walk on the Avenue du 
Bois.” 


THE ACCUSATION 


283 


“So much the better. Then we shall not be inter¬ 
rupted. ” 

She then related her strange adventure ot the 
night; her encounter with Frangois, who was trying 
to escape from the library like a burglar, and the 
strange story of this man who accused him, Roland, 
of having murdered Mrs. Readish. Alice here 
stopped short. Her brother, at first indifferent, had 
suddenly become livid. A cold perspiration ap¬ 
peared on his white brow, his eyes dilated as if in 
terror, and he shivered as if with cold. 

“Great heavens! what ails you?” she cried. 

By a powerful effort of will he recovered his 
composure. 

“Do not be alarmed,” he said slowly. “When I 
think that Mrs. Readish’s assassin was under my 
roof, a few steps from Florence—if the poor child 
had known!” 

This explanation was so natural, that the young 
woman did not insist further. Having controlled 
his emotion, Roland took up the conversation where 
his sister had broken off. He even affected an in¬ 
different air, as if the incident did not interest 
him. 

“The moral of the adventure,” he said, “is that 
we should never introduce strangers into the house. 
By the way, where did this man live before he 
came here?” 

“At 103 Avenue des Ternes.” 

“Very well, I will have him watched. Not that 


284 


SUCH IS LIFE 


I believe he will make another attempt, still it is 
well to keep an eye on him. Now, I must leave 
you. How frightened you must have been, my poor 
Alice!” 

He put his arms around her, and kissed her ten¬ 
derly. He was smiling, notwithstanding the terri¬ 
ble fear in his heart! With an assumed indiffer¬ 
ence, he traversed the long gallery that led to his 
own apartments; but once alone in his study, he 
sunk into a chair, crushed, overwhelmed. 

“Lost—I am lost!” he gasped. “That man will 
speak; it is foolish to think he will not. He has 
dared tell my sister that I am the assassin!” 

Roland reflected. What could be done? Then 
slowly an idea germed in his mind—a misty idea 
at first; but little by little it assumed shape, until 
it became very clear. After all, what danger did 
he run? None would believe Francis Chevrin, an 
adventurer, a former cowboy, who had been con¬ 
demned to four years’ imprisonment by an American 
tribunal. To make an accusation dangerous, to 
make it striking to the most indifferent by its ev¬ 
idence, it must be supported by irrefutable proofs. 
And this man possessed none—nothing but pre¬ 
sumptions that could crumble away under close ex¬ 
amination. That was all! 

Notwithstanding his reasonings, Roland did not 
feel reassured. His instinct told him that this 
Chevrin was a living danger, an ever-watchful en¬ 
emy, an ever-renewed menace. Then M. Mont- 


THE ACCUSATION 


285 


franchet returned to his starting-point. What 
could be done? yes, what could be done? Suddenly 
Roland started; a sweet voice was calling him 
from without. He opened the door. Florence had 
returned from her morning walk. 

"Excuse me if I am a little late,” she said, laugh¬ 
ing. "Are you ready for breakfast? I am almost 
starved. ” 

He pleaded a headache as a pretext for remain¬ 
ing alone; then, as the young wife seemed alarmed, 
he added: 

"Don’t be uneasy, my darling. I have worked hard 
these last few days, and all I need is a little 
rest. ” 

Again he was alone with his thoughts. No 
doubt, it mattered little whether Chevrin talked or 
remained silent. Were he to accuse banker Mont- 
franchet of murder and theft, people would only 
shrug their shoulders. Even supposing his enemies 
believed the story, there was no danger to be appre¬ 
hended. No one suspected, no one could suspect, 
that Mrs. Readish carried four bank-notes, of 
^4,000 sterling each, pinned inside of her dress. 
Then, how explain this inexplicable crime? Being 
without cause, it was also without interest? A bad 
action is always inspired by the profit to be gained. 
In this crime, nothing of the kind existed. And yet, 
in spite of all this plausible reasoning, Roland’s 
uneasiness was not calmed. An interior voice cried 
out that there was a peril to guard against. 


286 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“To destroy the accusation," he thought, “I must 
destroy the accuser!" 

The unfortunate man did not realize that he was 
rolling into the abyss that yawns under the feet of 
all guilty beings. Evil breeds evil, and the man 
who has committed a first crime, is condemned 
to the commission of a second. Philosophers may 
invent subtle devices, and deny the free-will of the 
human being; they may impute to mental maladies 
that which is the deed of a personal and acting will, 
What dominates all in life is the fatal concatena¬ 
tion of accomplished acts. After strangling Mrs. 
Readish, Roland had robbed her. And now, in the 
very hour when he believed himself assured of im¬ 
munity, the assassin was forced to immolate an¬ 
other victim. The just man can look into the fu¬ 
ture tranquilly; he has nothing to fear. The guilty 
man does not dare look into his future; for he 
knows that he will see only new faults, or new 
abominations! 


V 


THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 

In accepting the position of concierge in the Avenue 
Friedland mansion, Francis Chevrin did not aban¬ 
don his small lodgings in the Avenue des Ternes. 
He was attached to the paternal home, to the old 
surroundings which he had known and admired in 
other days. We always unconsciously retain a mys¬ 
terious respect for what we have loved in our child¬ 
hood. Who has not felt a thrill of delight on re¬ 
visiting the promenades and landscapes of the 
twelfth year. They are ineffaceable impressions 
that remain engraved in the heart like a sharp and 
penetrating souvenir. 

The former cowboy was happy to find .himself 
once more in his old home. Notwithstanding what 
he had told Madame Duseigneur, he did not re¬ 
nounce his project of vengeance, but simply post¬ 
poned it. An adventurous nature such as his is 
never at a loss to conceive new projects. Chevrin’s 
inventive mind was already constructing a clever 
and easily executed plan. Why had he not thought 
of it before? It is impossible to kill a man sur¬ 
rounded by numerous servants and protected by the 
daily surveillance of a large Parisian dwelling. 

287 


288 


SUCH IS LIFE. 


While over there, in Vaucluse, it would be easy 
to approach M. Montfranchet, to surprise him in one 
of his walks, and shoot him. 

Francis’ lodgings consisted of three rooms on 
the fifth floor. From the windows he could see the 
fortifications, and the cheerless gray houses com¬ 
mon to the faubourgs of Paris. In the evening 
after dinner, and before his services commenced at 
the Opera, he took great pleasure in walking along 
the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. He was liked 
in the quartier for his obliging disposition and quiet 
manners of the modest rentier. Mademoiselle the 
modiste or Monsieur the grocer would have been 
much astonished to learn that this little bourgeois 
had been a wanderer of the American prairie. A 
tenacious story—like all improbable stories—had 
gone the rounds of the neighborhood when the stage 
carpenter left the Avenue des Ternes, and entered 
M. Montfranchet’s service. At first it was said that 
he had become the celebrated banker’s secretary; 
the next day the secretary changed into a partner, 
and the marriageable young girls weaved many 
chimerical romances concerning him. When Chev- 
rin reappeared everybody experienced a great sur¬ 
prise and a profound disappointment. What could 
it mean? Francis carelessly remarked that he 
could not get used to the dull routine of a seden¬ 
tary existence. This remark flattered the self-love 
of those honest people. They must lead a very 
noisy and agitated life, since their neighbor de- 


THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 


289 


serted the height of finance for the humble Avenue 
des Ternes. 

Forced to put off the execution of his plans, as 
M. Montfranchet was *not to return to Vaucluse 
until autumn, Francis resumed his old habits. 
During the day he wandered through Paris with the 
careless swagger of an idler. In the evening he 
went to the theater, the concert caf£, or to one of 
the thousand attractions that Paris offers to the 
unoccupied. A few days after his return to his 
humble lodgings, the concierge stopped him as he 
was ascending the stairs. 

“Monsieur Chevrin,” said he, “someone called 
while you were out.” 

“Who was it?” he asked, raising his head quickly. 

“I don’t know; the gentleman didn’t leave his 
name. ” 

Chevrin ascended to his lodgings, preoccupied 
and disturbed. Who could have wanted to see 
him? On reflection, however, he became calmer, 
for he knew Madame Duseigneur’s generous char¬ 
acter. This noble woman would not betray him. 
Nevertheless, as he was passing out the next morn¬ 
ing, he stopped to chat with the concierge. 

“You spoke of a visitor—what kind of a man was 
he?” he asked. 

Overjoyed to find a listener, the loquacious door 
keeper began a long account. Oh ! he was a real 
gentleman, almost as well-dressed as M. Chevrin 
himself. But he had scarcely seen his face, for it 
Such is Life /p 


290 


SUCH IS LIFE 


was getting late, and besides, a large soft hat con¬ 
cealed the forehead and eyes. But he had a beau¬ 
tiful beard, a beautiful, silky, brown beard. 

This last piece of information completely reas¬ 
sured Francis: it was one of his old comrades at 
T Opera, no doubt. He then went out to his break¬ 
fast at a little restaurant where he took his meals, 
and which displayed the odd sign of “Au Papier 
bleu.” Francis was in high spirits: he joked 
with the proprietress of the restaurant, who was 
humming snatches of songs heard at the caf£ con¬ 
cert. This mature beauty was highly flattered by 
the attentions of such an elegant man. Chevrin 
spent the entire day chatting with this one and 
that one, playing cards and telling stories of his 
past life, which caused his neighbors to remark to 
each other that M. Chevrin was a great traveler. 

About four o’clock in the afternoon, Fran5ois 
went home, as he always did, before his dinner. On 
this evening the concierge stopped him again. 

"Monsieur Chevrin,” he said, "that person who 
called the other day was here again to-day." 

"Well, can you describe him a little better this 
time?” asked Chevrin. 

"Still less; he had a handkerchief to his cheek 
—he probably had the toothache." 

Gavarni has observed that concierges generally 
have many children. To this first observation may 
be added a second: It is that toothache is particu¬ 
larly prevalent in that class of society. Is it be- 


THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 


291 


cause they live on the ground floor? or because their 
door is so frequently opened? Chevrin did not 
trouble himself much about this second visit, but 
quietly directed his steps to the “Papier bleu." 

On the prairie, a cowboy is always on his guard; 
dangers surround him on every side. Behind each 
bush may be concealed an enemy with a rifle in his 
hand and a revolver in his belt. If, however, the 
adventurer returns to Parisian life, he soon abandons 
his vigilance. What is there to be feared in a city 
full of detectives and police officers? Besides, 
Francis feared no one. A blow from his fist would 
stun a vigorous man, and his heavy cane was a for¬ 
midable weapon in his hands. Had he been as 
vigilant as in other days, Chevrin would have re¬ 
marked a man with a slouched hat on his head, and 
a handkerchief held up to his face, who followed 
him at a certain distance. 

The night was beautiful: one of those spring 
nights so delicious in Paris, and which the great 
poet Francois Coppee has described with such 
thrilling emotion: 

“Le crepuscule est triste et doux comme un adieu. 

A 1’orient deja, dans le ciel sombre, et bleu 
Ou lentement la nuit qui monte, etend ses voiles, 

De timides clartes, vagues espoirs d’etoiles.” * 

“It is the hour when the pale working girls return 
home from their daily tasks; when the shop-women 
stand on their thresholds, gayly exchanging tart 
compliments or idle gossip; children roll their 


292 


SUCH IS LIFE 


hoops or chase each other, screaming like little 
sparrows, cheering the big matron who pushes her 
little cart filled with flowers in front of her, crying: 
“Violets, violets! Who wants beautiful violets!” 
The great Parisian city is already lighting up, pre¬ 
paring its joyous night, and the yellow light of the 
gas-jets penetrates the growing obscurity. 


VI 


THE MURDER 

No; Roland’s fears were not calmed. Since a 
nervous malady had taken possession of him, there 
evidently existed a physical and moral disorder, 
a delicate cerebral lesion. He had hitherto passed 
entire weeks without thinking of Mrs. Readish; as 
remorse had never troubled his quiet conscience, 
he scarcely remembered his victim. 

All was now changed. Since his marriage with 
Florence, his crime never left him. How could he 
forget the mother, when he lived beside the daugh¬ 
ter? That strange resemblance which incessantly 
pursued him awakened the remembrance of the 
murder and theft. After his illness at Chateau de 
Canourgues, he had recovered very slowly, as we 
recover from violent shocks that upset the human 
machine. Alice’s revelation sufficed to throw him 
back into his former terror. Everything then re¬ 
minded him of Mrs. Readish! He believed the 
crime buried with the dead woman. The crime 
was resurrected in this adventurer, and the woman 
was resurrected in his radiant and beloved Florence. 
His sufferings returned, and with these sufferings 
the bitter, cruel, and persistent insomnia. 

293 


294 


SUCH IS LIFE 


What! one of the actors of that tragic adventure 
suddenly mixed in his life! That one of those 
wretched cow-boys should suspect him! track him 
like a hunting dog in quest of game; enter his own 
house to watch and punish him! Indeed, he did 
not trouble himself about Francois Chevrin; he oc¬ 
cupied too lofty a position to be reached by such 
an accusation. But his former assurance had forever 
disappeared. There was a black cloud in his life; 
an anxiety that never left him. And a fury against 
this man entered his heart. 

For a few days Florence believed that he had 
again become a prey to his former malady. 

“We had better return to Canourgues,” she de¬ 
clared. “You have interrupted the peaceful and 
healthy existence you led over there; you walk but 
little, and never fence. Besides, in Paris we have 
but little time for each other.” 

She knelt before her husband as she spoke, and 
raised her pure, loving eyes to his. 

“Leave Paris? No, no, never! ” he exclaimed, 
with a shudder; then seeing her look of astonish¬ 
ment at this odd answer, he added: 

“I mean—not now. You see, my darling, I am 
not well—Oh! do not be alarmed; it will pass 
away. Here the physicians can observe me closely. 
Besides, you are not alone; Alice is near you, and 
that reassures me." 

She turned her head away to dry the tears that 
came to her eyes, hoping to conceal her uneasiness. 


THE MURDER 


295 


Could Roland be in danger? She scarcely recog¬ 
nized him now. This nervous, gloomy man re¬ 
called in nothing the delicate and loving husband 
she had known. She covered his hands with kisses, 
as she murmured in her sweet musical voice: 

"You are not happy; oh, do not deny it! I read it 
in your eyes, and I divine all your thoughts. There 
is something painful and bitter within you which 
eludes my understanding. You have a secret; but 
I warn you I will penetrate it." 

These words struck terror into his heart. If 
Florence were to suspect him! If chance brought 
her face to face with Francis Chevrin, and he told 
her what he had told Alice a few days ago! He 
made an effort to drive away this growing terror; 
he became tender and caressing, calming her 
anxiety little by little, deluding her by those lov¬ 
ing words that sound so sweet to a woman’s ears. 
When she was reassured, they built projects for 
the future. Why not go off together on that long 
sea voyage which the physicians advised? Was it 
not one of their projects before marriage? For 
hours they spoke of those magical countries of 
which they had dreamed. To go far, far away 
through mythological India or mysterious China, 
to wander through those cities which the bold ex¬ 
plorer alone has described. 

Although confidence returned to the young woman, 
Roland became more and more restless. How many 
long, weary nights, a prey to his terrible r'nsomnia, he 


296 


SUCH IS LIFE 


spent stretched on a reclining-chair or pacing 
slowly up and down his room. He was afraid of this 
Francois Chevrin; it was a nervous, unreason¬ 
able, absurd fear. The sudden apparition of this 
adventurer seemed not only an evocation of his 
crime, but also a threat of punishment. How could 
he rid himself of this man? How? Mrs. Readish’s 
death dictated his conduct. 

In suppressing a useless, wicked, and vicious 
woman, he had assured his own and his sister’s hap¬ 
piness; in suppressing the cowboy, he obeyed the 
same necessity. This crime was the logical se¬ 
quence of the other, the fatal deduction which it 
imposed. Then he felt a sudden revulsion. ‘Why 
should he trouble himself about this insignificant 
being, lost in the throng? What could he do against 
him? Chevrin had denounced Roland to Alice, and 
she had driven away her brother’s calumniator. It 
mattered little if he accused him to Florence: the 
wife would be as incredulous as the sister. But in 
spite of all these reasonings, M. Montfranchet was 
troubled. He felt a presentiment of an inevitable 
catastrophe. The more he reflected, the more he 
realized the necessity of removing this persistent 
menace, of ridding himself of this denunciator 
who tried to crush him by his terrible accusation. 
And M. Montfranchet returned to this: he must 
suppress Chevrin. Thus, because we have committed 
a first crime, we must commit a second. This 
murder had been forgotten, and he believed it for- 


THE MURDER 


297 


ever disappeared; like the victim, forever buried. 
But what had disappeared reappears; the hidden 
corpse arises from its grave! Is this then what 
we call the hand of God? 

“What a fool I am,” he muttered, “there is no 
God! And if perchance, he exists, he has plenty 
to do without troubling himself about us. The hal¬ 
lucinations I suffered at Canourgues have disturbed 
my nervous system. I have absurd ideas that I 
should never have conceived in other days. 

He did not realize that he was the victim of an 
unhealthy impulsion, what specialists call “melan¬ 
choly depression." Maudsley says that “homicides 
committed are often the work of individuals under 
the influence of commencing melancholy. Tortured, 
sleepless, they do not manifest positive delirium.” 

Whether he would or not, Roland could not 
drive away the thought that haunted him. It was 
an obsession of every minute—almost the beginning 
of the mania of persecution. He saw Fran5ois 
Chevrin denouncing him to the whole world, pur¬ 
suing him with his invectives and threats, tearing 
away the lying mask that covered his face—Ah! 
well, he would kill him then! By what means? 
The second crime must go unpunished like the 
first. It is no easy task to assassinate a man in the 
very heart of Paris without being seen, surprised or 
suspected. How could it be done? How strike so 
surely that the victim would die without speaking? 
so skillfully that no one could accuse the guilty 


298 


SUCH IS LIFE 


person? At last, Roland devised a plan. A little 
cleverness and a great deal of audacity was all that 
was required. During the morning he carefully cal¬ 
culated the dangers he would run. At breakfast he 
was in high spirits, and Florence proposed a walk. 

“Willingly,” he replied, gayly. “I have been or¬ 
dered to walk; and it is a real pleasure to escort 
such a pretty woman as you are, Madame!” 

When they returned at three o’clock, he shut him¬ 
self in his room. Then from among his summer 
hats, he chose one of soft gray felt, which he usually 
wore hunting or in his rambles through the forest. 
He then dressed hurriedly. 

His toilet completed, he examined himself in the 
mirror. The change was amazing: the handsome 
Roland looked like a well-dressed laborer in quest 
of adventure. 

Satisfied with the metamorphosis, he approached 
the panoply hanging on the wall; after a few mo¬ 
ments of hesitation he selected a large knife with 
two sharp blades. A quarter of an hour later, a 
coupk rolled along the Avenue Friedland toward 
the Park Nonceau. When it reached Rue Murilio 
Roland ordered the coachman to wait for him, and 
entered the Park, which he crossed rapidly. He 
remembered a small hat store, corner of the Rue 
Viette and Boulevard Malesherbes. The banker 
had found a pretext. After leaving his high hat at 
this shop, he walked slowly to Francis Chevrin’s 
domicile. The plan succeeded to perfection. An 


THE MURDER 


299 


hour later, Roland was skillfully interrogating this 
one and that one, and soon initiated himself into 
the daily habits of the former cowboy. The next 
day he repeated his adventurous expedition, taking 
the same precautions. When all his plans were 
settled, he patiently awaited the chosen hour. 

It was evening. Roland knew that Francis had 
just returned home but would remain there only a 
short time. At the usual hour he would direct his 
steps toward the restaurant “Papier bleu,” with the 
regularity of an idler whose fixed habits are never 
disturbed. The watch would be long no doubt, but 
no matter. A tenacious will recoils before nothing. 

Never had the plump hostess of the “Papier bleu” 
seen her customer in better humor. When absorbed 
by his thoughts of vengeance, Chevrin was usually 
gloomy and impatient; but this evening he was 
hilarious and gay. He remained in the place until 
a late hour, reading the evening papers, playing 
cards, and chatting with the shop-keepers of the 
quartier. At last he arose, at about ten o'clock, 
and saying: “Good-Night,” as usual, passed out 
into the night. 

Without, a fine rain was falling. The Boulevard 
Gouvion-Saint-Cyr stretched out empty and deserted 
in the dreariness of its nocturnal solitude. The 
broad drives that encircle Paris, following the line 
of fortifications, resemble those large provincial 
court-yards where not even an idler is to be seen. 
As soon as night sets in, they seem abandoned 


300 


SUCH IS LIFE 


and deserted; the light of a fiacre is scarcely seen 
once in a half-hour in the shadows. Francis was 
following the road, when he was startled by hear¬ 
ing his name called in a loud voice: 

"Eh! Monsieur Chevrin! ” 

He turned. A man, wearing a soft felt hat that 
almost hid his face, advanced rapidly toward him, 
until the two men almost touched each other. 
Then a nervous hand grasped the adventurer’s 
shoulder; he saw the shining gray steel glitter; 
before he could utter a cry the merciless blade 
sunk into his throat. There was a very short strug¬ 
gle, rather an attempt at resistance than a struggle. 
The victim seized the murderer’s hand, and 
pressed it with a convulsive grasp. Then, suddenly, 
Francis Chevrin fell back dead. 


VII 


THE CLEW 

Alice was working, awaiting her husband’s return. 
The scores of a new opera by Saint Saens had 
just been distributed to the artists at the Opera, and 
she was rehearsing her role. The door opened noise¬ 
lessly, and Aristide entered, walking so softly that 
she did not hear his footsteps on the carpet. He 
approached the piano and threw his arms around her. 
She uttered a cry of surprise. 

"You frightened me! ” she said laughing. 

"How pretty you are this morning !”he exclaimed. 

"You repeat the same phrase every day.” 

"By the way," interrupted Aristide, "I have some 
news for you.” 

"News?” 

"Yes, about that fellow you dismissed the other 
day because he was masquerading under an assumed 
name—you remember—the stage carpenter.” 

Aristide was ignorant ®f the accusation made by 
/Chevrin against Roland, as Alice had preferred to 
remain silent on the subject. At these words a 
shadow glided over the young woman’s brow. Could 
the wretch have dared? 

"What about him?” she asked anxiously, 
sm 


302 


SUCH IS LIFE 


"The poor devil is dead.” 

"Dead!” 

"He was found murdered yesterday morning on 
one of the boulevards. The unfortunate man lay in a 
pool of blood. It is supposed that a tramp attacked 
him unexpectedly, and cut his throat with one thrust 
of the knife. Death must have been instantaneous.” 

"Heavens! what a shocking tragedy! ” 

"Here is the paper.” 

Under the heading of "The assassination on the 
Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr, ” the newspaper re¬ 
lated the crime in a precise manner and in all its 
details. Madame Duseigneur read and reread the 
article many times. She was haunted by one single 
thought—"Has he told others what he told me?” 
However, she affected to attach no importance to the 
tragedy and went gayly into the dining room with 
her husband. 

When she was once more alone, her lively imagi¬ 
nation was set to work. What a strange destiny had 
been his! Frangois Chevrin, son of a Parisian shop¬ 
keeper, to die in a nocturnal ambush, after leading 
such an adventurous life on the prairie! She now 
almost forgave him his abominable calumny. This 
frightful death seemed like an atonement. Suddenly 
a great fear came over her: what if the unfortunate 
man had left traces of his false accusation? All vic¬ 
tims mysteriously assassinated become the prey of 
the police. Seals are applied to their effects in the 
hope of finding a letter or something that may give 


THE CLEIV 


303 


a clew to the murderer. Provided Chevrin had writ¬ 
ten nothing! Her uneasiness increased so fast that 
it became unbearable. 

“I must know," she said aloud. 

She ordered the carriage. She would go to the 
Police Office in the quartier where Francis had lived. 
This was not an extraordinary proceeding after 
all. The man had been in her service, and it was 
only natural that she should be interested in him. 

The “ Conimissaires de police ” of Paris are nearly all 
intelligent men, who combine the shrewdness of 
the officer with the dignity of the magistrate. The 
comviissaire of the Rue des Ternes received the cele¬ 
brated Madame Salbert with respectful attention. 
Before even learning the object of the great artist’s 
visit, he expressed his admiration of her with well- 
bred enthusiasm. He then listened attentively 
while the young woman made known her business. 
She explained that she had read of the murder in 
the newspapers. She was much interested in this 
poor fellow, who had been one of the stage-carpen¬ 
ters at the Opera, and afterward lodge-keeper at 
her brother’s house. Could the crime be explained? 
Had the police any clew? 

“Indeed, Madame,” replied the officer, “I scarcely 
know how to answer your questions. We know noth¬ 
ing, absolutely nothing. Evidently the motive of 
the murder was robbery, and yet Chevrin was not 
robbed. His purse and watch were found on the 
body. The murderer was no doubt surprised in his 


304 


SUCH IS LIFE 


sinister work, and had no time to search his victim. 
He was probably a public-house lounger, or perhaps 
—pardon the word I must use— un Alphonse de pro¬ 
fession. In fact, beside the body was found a ring 
covered with blood and mire. It must have belonged 
to the murderer, for it was too small for the victim. 
Oh! it is not a ring of great value, and if you would 
like to see it—” 

The officer put his hand into a cup that stood on 
his desk, and took a gold ring closed with a cat’s- 
eye. 

“Here, Madame, look—” 

He was interrupted by a knock at the door, and his 
attention was diverted for a few moments. Had it 
not been for this incident, he must certainly have 
remarked Madame Salbert’s agitation, and the 
deathly pallor of her face. She recognized a ring 
she had given her brother seven years before on his 
return from America! She could not be mistaken. 
The pupil of the cat’s-eye had an apparent defect; 
it had a very fine line in the form of a zigzag, 
Notwithstanding the terror in her heart, Alice 
quickly recovered herself. 

“Perhaps the unfortunate man has left no money, 
Monsieur," she said in a trembling voice. “Allow 
me to give you this roll of fifty louis. I cannot 
forget that Francis Chevrin saved my life, and 
that he was in my service. If he died penniless 
a thousand francs will pay the expense of a burial; 
if—” 


THE CLEJV 


305 


"Thank you for your generosity, Madame,” inter¬ 
rupted the officer, bowing gallantly ; “but fortunately 
it is not needed. The poor fellow was quite well 
off, and I trust his heirs will respect his memory.” 

Madame Duseigneur arose, and by an energetic 
effort managed to stand. 

“Keep the money, Monsieur, ” she said. ‘‘I beg you 
to accept it for the poor of your district, in memory 
of a man to whom I owe much.” 

When she found herself in the carriage once more, 
Alice thought she was going to faint. Roland was 
Francis Chevrin’s murderer! How could she doubt 
it? Chevrin had accused Roland, and a few nights 
later he fell under the knife of an unknown. On the 
very spot where the crime was committed, a jewel 
was picked up which could only belong to the 
murderer, a ring torn from his finger in the last 
convulsions of the victim 

What more convincing proof, what more complete 
evidence could be wanted? When she reached her 
home, the young woman locked herself in her room, 
after giving orders that no one should be admitted. 
Once alone, she sunk into a chair, crushed by her 
despair. A new and sinister light had entered her 
brain. Why had Francois been murdered? Be¬ 
cause he had accused Roland. Of what did he ac 
cuse him? Of the murder of Mrs. Readish. There¬ 
fore the second crime proved the first. If Roland 
had suppressed an inconvenient witness, then this 
witness had not lied. M. Montfranchet always 
Such is Life 20 


306 


SUCH IS LIFE 


wore the ring given by his sister in the days of their 
poverty. Ah! poor, unhappy Alice! That brother, 
whom she admired, loved, worshiped, as the noblest, 
most upright, most loyal of men, was a murderer!—a 
murderer—that being, born good and upright, so 
courageous in adversity, so brave in misfortune. 
How? By what series of temptations could he have 
come to this? She tried in vain to understand. It 
was a frightful mystery! 

At last, unable to endure the suspense, she re¬ 
solved to end it—to tell all to Roland, if it killed 
her. It were better to die than to bear this intol¬ 
erable pain. In the depths of her heart there 
lingered a faint hope. 

“If he can only give an excuse, prove that my 
eyes deceived me, or that I am mad!” 


VIII 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER 

The brother and sister were standing face to face. 

In a voice choked with emotion, Alice was slowly 
concluding the terrible recital; the visit at the 
police office, the discovery of the ring, and how the 
horrible truth had suddenly flashed upon her in all 
its hideousness. The Roland of to-day no longer 
resembled the Roland of yesterday. Heart disease 
augmented the nervousness of his impressionable 
nature. Alice’s unexpected discovery of his secret 
had completely upset this hitherto self-possessed 
man; and as his sister went on, he felt his nerve s 
give way. 

Motionless, very pale, his eyes fixed, he stood 
before Alice without uttering a word, not even 
attempting to defend himself. His sister knew all ! 
that adored sister, for whom he would have given 
ten years of his life, for whom he had endured pri¬ 
vation, misery, and hunger! Alice knew the crimes 
he had committed; Mrs. Readish’s death, the hide¬ 
ous robbery, and Francis Chevrin’s murder! What 
chastisement, and what expiation! He gazed at 
her in silence. The young woman’s face expressed 
such intense pain that tears sprung into Roland’s 
307 


308 


SUCH IS LIFE 


eyes. She buried her face in her hands for a few 
moments, then resumed in a broken voice: 

"I loved no one in the world as I loved you. No 
one. I believed you so pure, so generous, so noble! 
We grew up side by side, and nothing ever sepa¬ 
rated us. When we were children, we shared every¬ 
thing together. The first name I learned to lisp, 
was not our father’s; it was yours. Sometimes you 
said to me, ‘How unfortunate that we have nc 
mother!’ and I thought within myself: 'I have 
no mother, it is true, but I have Roland.’ Later, 
when we were left alone in the world, I relied on 
you only. If you knew how much I admired you! 
We keep such things buried in our heart, and I 
might never have told you perhaps. But while you 
wandered through Paris in search of a situation I 
felt even a deeper affection for you. Then you went 
to America; you returned. And I guessed nothing— 
nothing! ” 

Ah! how Alice wept over her destroyed illusions, 
her sisterly love and all that dear past which was 
flying from her, never to return! 

"Tell me all, I beseech you,” she continued; "con¬ 
ceal nothing from me. I believed myself your liv¬ 
ing conscience, the one to whom you revealed your 
most secret thoughts, the one who knew your tempta¬ 
tions, your weaknesses, your failings. You have 
always been so truthful to me that even now you 
attempt to deny nothing. I know you cannot, for 
the proof is so convincing, so complete! But with 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER 


309 


another, no doubt, you would stammer an awkward 
excuse. Before me you bowed your head, as if 
my voice were the mysterious voice which should 
speak to you in silence when you are alone! ” 

Roland arose abruptly. 

"Deny it!” he cried in an agitated voice. "Do 
you not see that I have reached the limit of my 
strength? After Mrs. Readish’s death, I lived seven 
tranquil, untroubled years. It is forty-eight hours 
since I killed that unfortunate man, and I endure 
a remorse that is driving me mad!” 

Then, in a hurried, breathless voice, he told her 
all: the journey with Sacha and Nelly; the fits of 
anger he felt toward this maniac, this cruel, wicked 
woman; the quarrels in New York and Chicago, 
and finally their arrival at Willow Creek. He 
omitted none of the details; an invincible power 
seemed to force him to tell the truth, as if by reveal¬ 
ing to Alice his most secret thoughts, he were re¬ 
lieving himself of the terrible burden that crushed 
his conscience. As the young woman listened, and 
saw his sufferings, a strange feeling of pity came 
over her. She knew all now, even the nocturnal 
larceny that no one could have suspected, the steal¬ 
ing of the four bank notes pinned to the victim’s 
dress, and which had been the foundation of his 
abominable fortune. 

"And you are a thief! you are a thief!” she re¬ 
peated, wringing her trembling hands. 

"Yes; I am a thief! Yes; I am a murderer! 


310 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Ah! remember our struggles, our sufferings, our 
shames, our humiliations! I was crushed; I could 
bear no more. I was determined to have fortune at 
any price—I picked it up where I could.” 

But she insisted on a complete, absolute confes¬ 
sion. This upright woman, with her simple and 
loyal soul, could not understand how Sacha’s mur¬ 
derer could have lived so many years in peace with 
himself; that without a revolt of his whole being, 
he could have married Florence, loved her, and 
been happy with her! Again she listened, with a 
vague hope of finding an excuse—one only—for this 
unhappy brother. When he had ended, she arose 
in her turn, quivering with indignation and grief. 

"And it was your philosophers that consoled and 
sustained you!” she-cried; "it was by repeating to 
yourself the phrases of these rhetoricians that you 
smothered the cry of your conscience! Has not 
each human being an interior voice that advises or 
blames him? Ah, Roland! consider well what is 
good and just, and decide if you have not been 
doubly guilty, since you did not execrate your crime 
after committing it." 

He was gazing at her fixedly, but did not utter 
one word in self-defense. 

"Listen,” she continued; "you will never find a 
more lenient or more merciful judge. I have loved 
you too well to cease to love you in an instant. 
But I am lost in this labyrinth. Ah! what! Not 
a pang of remorse—not a single thought of repent- 

-.-Jf 



THE BROTHER AND SISTER 


311 


ance? You could be happy, and go through life 
with a light heart! I cannot understand it; no, I 
cannot understand it.” 

Roland raised his head. 

“How can you understand it?” he said doggedly; 
"you want my confession: receive it complete. If 
you knew what combats I fought with myself when 
I returned to life in that hospital room, and could 
judge the deeds I had committed. There was a 
slow transition from virtue to crime; one does not 
cease to be an honest man in a day. Without per¬ 
ceiving it, he will crumble little by little. I was 
born loyal and honest, believing in goodness, 
virtue, justice. But how could I escape the con¬ 
tagion of example? On all sides I saw evil ad¬ 
mired and iniquity triumphant. I was born armed 
for the struggle, with a resisting combativeness; 
but how could that conscience which you invoke 
resist dissolution? Everywhere I encountered bad 
will, base intrigues, and human wickedness. Un¬ 
wittingly I became another being; at the first moral 
shock I was conquered. Mrs. Readish’s death was 
the initial cause of my wrong-doing. In reality I 
could absolve myself from her death. One is inno¬ 
cent when the deed is unpremeditated; the involun 
tary murder became a crime because it was fol¬ 
lowed by a voluntary larceny—’’ 

Alice interrupted him with an impatient gesture. 

"But afterward! afterward!” she cried; “how is 
it that you did not feel the abomination of your 


312 


SUCH IS LIFE 


conduct? How is it that you did not scorn your¬ 
self?” 

Roland was walking slowly up and down the 
room. He stopped before her, and said in a husky 
voice: 

“Why should I scorn myself? I was merely obey¬ 
ing that eternal law which ordains that the stronger . 
suppress the weaker. Ah, true, the Darwinian phi¬ 
losophy does not recognize the right to murder. The 
great naturalist spoke only of young forces, scat¬ 
tered through humanity, that destroy the worn-out 
species and succeed them. But the deductions that 
I drew from these theories excused and pardoned 
me in my own eyes. Read the great thinkers of 
this century; study the subtle psychologists, or the 
penetrating physiologists, whether it be Fouill£e, 
Charles Richet, or Ribot; they will all give you 
the same answer: Life is a combat. So much the 
worse for those who succumb. The spiritualist 
theories are antiquated, false, and ridiculous. If 
the soul does not exist, why should we have a con¬ 
science? And without a conscience, there can 
be no remorse; without remorse, no repentance. 
Yes, I lived free, happy, never thinking of that 
murdered woman. You condemn me because I 
loved and married Florence. I was wiping out 
the wrong of the past. ” 

In her turn Alice arose; and with a tragic gest¬ 
ure, in a superb burst of indignation and sincerity, 
she cried: 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER 


313 


And God—what do you make of God?” 

Roland burst into a mirthless laflgh. 

“You know well that I do not believe in Him.” 

“You do not believe in God?” she cried, aghast. 
“Why, unfortunate man, God himself forces you to be¬ 
lieve in Him! He prepared, conducted, decided all; 
He led you as if by the hand to the point you have 
reached. You returned from America, tranquil and 
happy; you threw yourself once more into the com¬ 
bat, with renewed strength and absolute confidence. 
You succeeded in everything. Fortune, hitherto 
so cruel, was clement, and smiled on you; you be¬ 
lieved yourself sure of impunity? The world was 
ignorant that you had murdered and stolen. Who 
could bring your crime home to you? God! He was 
ever watchful; he placed Florence in your path, and 
you loved each other. You hoped for happiness! 
—what madness! Did you not think it very strange 
that you should meet your victim’s daughter? 
There are so many women in the world whom you 
could have loved, to whom you could have given 
your name. But you chose this one , knowing noth¬ 
ing of her past. You loved, you adored, this un¬ 
known woman, and you saw your future only in 
her, through her, for her! Ah! yes!—hazard! It 
is by that name you skeptics call Providence. 
Reflect and judge, that Providence which you deny 
brought you to Florence, for God wanted you to 
be the artisan of your own punishment. This was 
not enough: the same Providence brought Francis 


314 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Chevrin into your life. Because you committed 
the first crime, you must commit a second!” 

Roland listened in silence, struck by the logic 
of his sister’s words. Beloved beings influence us 
as much by their voice as by the words they utter. 
Since childhood, Roland had always suffered him¬ 
self to be charmed and influenced by his sister’s 
voice. 

"And for your excuse,” she resumed angrily, "you 
attest the subtilities of philosophers, the hypoth¬ 
esis of naturalists! I do not possess your science, 
and I am ignorant of the works you quote. But I 
shall never believe that men of genius or talent 
can deny the free-will, deny the acting will, which 
permits us to choose between good and evil. That 
the masses do not understand the works of thinkers 
is possible; that the demi-savants draw false con¬ 
clusions from a true theory, I admit also. These 
people find it convenient to create a moral for their 
own purposes from hastily digested readings. But 
is such an error supposable in you? you, who 
have studied everything, whose brain is ripened, 
whose intelligence is exercised? The excuses 
you gave, you refuted again, almost as soon as 
you had chosen them. I cannot believe that you 
were unconscious of your crime. Unfortunately 
your pride spoke louder than your conscience; 
that pride which gave you the desire for money, 
because in searching for it your vanity had suffered. 
It was pride still that sustained you when you be- 


THE BROTHER AND SISTER 


315 


came rich, and ruled the world with your mill¬ 
ions, though you were still muttering excuses to 
yourself. But what is most abominable is to have 
married Florence; to have taken for wife, friend, 
companion, the daughter of your victim! and 
smiling, with head erect, to have consummated 
that execrable union! ” 

Overwhelmed, with head bowed down, Roland 
fell on his knees before his sister. 

“Oh! I know what you will answer," she con¬ 
tinued with vehement passion. “To atone for the 
mother’s death, you made the daughter’s happi¬ 
ness; and you gave back to the daughter the money 
stolen from the mother! Even more, you gave her 
considerable wealth. What deception! Repent¬ 
ance alone can efface, and you had no repentance; 
remorse alone can atone, and you had no remorse. 
You realized the infamy of your conduct only when 
forced to commit a second crime. Wretch! you 
have done all this! Ah! I have loved you too 
much to hate you now; but I scorn you; you, whom 
I esteemed so highly! That is why I curse you—you 
have overthrown my idol! Were I not an ardent 
and convinced Christian, I would doubt every¬ 
thing. In whom can I believe, since I have lost 
faith in you?" 

Her grief was so poignant that tears flowed down 
her cheeks; and Roland wept also, for he felt that 
all was over—that in losing his sister, he was los- 


316 


SUCH IS LIFE 


ing everything. He still knelt before her, his 
frame shaken by sobs. 

i "Yes, I am a wretch," he muttered. "I have no 
'excuse, and I deserve no pity! And yet, I implore, 
I beseech you—you, who are my conscience and my 
judge—do not abandon me to myself. Forgive me! “ 

"Never!" 

"Alice! Alice! in the name of our childhood, do 
not be pitiless. I cannot live with your scorn. 
|The thought that you will no longer be my aid, my 
refuge, my consolation, is intolerable to me. For¬ 
give me! ” 

"Never! " she repeated for the second time. 

"Oh! our blessed childhood! Oh! the divine 
days that we have spent together, when you were a 
child, and I directed your first steps, and you threw 
your baby arms around my neck, saying that you 
loved me more than anything else in the world. 
Are those recollections nothing to you? And later, 
when we were left alone, how your vigilant affection 
strengthened my failing courage! Forgive me— 
throw a merciful glance on your unhappy brother, 
who extends his arms to you, who supplicates and 
beseeches you. Forgive me!” 

"Never! ” she said again in a broken voice, as if 
her strength were abandoning her. 

Then Roland rose and tried to fly, but was scarcely 
)able to walk. He beat the air with his nervous 
hands, stumbled against the furniture, and groped 
jalong the walls like an intoxicated man 



THE BROTHER AND SISTER 


317 


He disappeared, and the young woman was left 
alone. Then she uttered a piercing shriek, and fell 
to the floor unconscious. 


IX 


THE SUICIDE 

After this terrible scene, Roland took to his bed, 
never to leave it. All these frightful emotions 
completely broke down his resisting nature. The 
nervous disorders and cardiacal troubles, from which 
M. Montfranchet had so long suffered, became ac¬ 
centuated. In vain did they try to calm him by 
giving him digitalis. Florence was terrified, and 
immediately sent for Doctor Allouard, who did not 
conceal his uneasiness. The symptoms were very 
grave; frequent dizziness and continued insomnia, 
which fatal drugs alone could appease. In a few 
days the patient grew so much worse that they all 
realized that his end was near. 

Florence’s grief was pitiful to behold. In her 
husband’s presence she still succeeded in conceal¬ 
ing her torturing anxiety; but when alone, she 
wept silently and bitterly. Nothing could console 
her, neither the false hopes Alice murmured in her 
ear, nor the embarrassed words of the physician, 
who tried to deceive her. As to the patient, he 
underwent intolerable sufferings; being seized at 
every instant with sharp pains in the region of the 
heart. 


318 


THE SUICIDE 


319 


When he tried to walk across his room, his 
weakness was such that he often fainted away. 
■Logically, moral weakness followed, and the exist¬ 
ence of this dying man became a hell. Not a mo¬ 
ment of truce, not a moment of repose. During 
the long, sleepless nights, Roland was tortured by 
the specters of his two victims. And to his remorse 
was added a perpetual terror. What punishment 
for this man, so proud, and so robust, whom 
insomnia left so exhausted and powerless. The 
hours succeeded each other with painful slowness in 
the dreary solitude of the night, for Florence had 
urged him in vain to allow her to stay up with him. 

"I beg of you, let me remain with you,” she 
pleaded. "It will not tire me, for I can sleep dur¬ 
ing the day, when Alice or our friends can take care 
of you.” 

But no, he would have no one. Indeed, he would 
have been happy to have his beloved Florence near 
him, but he feared delirium. If he were to speak, 
to evoke the gloomy past, suddenly revealing the 
sinister truth to his wife! His thoughts devoured 
his heart, and nevertheless he preferred to be alone 
with them. Alice’s avenging words never left his 
mind: torn by remorse, he ended by scorning and 
despising himself. 

Madame Duseigneur visited her brother every 
morning. Had she been cold or less assiduous, 
Florence would have been surprised, and Alice did 
not want her sister-in-law to suspect anything. 


320 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Often, when no one else was present, Roland would 
take his sister’s hand and look at her longingly. 
Ah! the poor woman well understood the eloquence 
of that dumb gaze. 

“Will you always be inexorable? and will you 
never forgive me?” it signified. “See, what mar¬ 
tyrdom is mine! I expiate cruelly the wrong I 
have committed. Alice, remember the past, re¬ 
member the love that united us. Be merciful, for 
death will soon strike me!" 

How many times the poor woman leaned oVer the 
sick man, to imprint on his brow the kiss of for¬ 
getfulness. But she could not—no, she could not! 
She had admired him too much. Her brother’s 
fall humiliated her deeply, and wounded her in her 
dearest affections. 

One evening Roland dragged himself into his 
study. Doctor Allouard had just made his daily 
visit, and found him a little better. Seated near 
the window, M. Montfranchet gazed sadly at the 
garden. A faint breeze rustled among the trees, 
the new leaves were expanding along the sappy 
branches; life smiled in these promises of renewal. 

“I shall never see summer,” he thought. “So 
much the better. I suffer too much. My life has 
become unbearable, and if I were to drag on long—” 

His reveries were interrupted by voices from the 
gallery that united the two wings of the dwelling. 
Florence and Alice were speaking of him, of the 
physician’s prognostications. Roland shuddered. 


THE SUICIDE 


321 


If he could only hear! Sick people have a perpet¬ 
ual preoccupation to know the truth. They suspect 
that they are abused, deceived by vain promises, 
and they have an imperious desire of penetrating 
the falsehoods invented by affection. Painfully he 
arose from his chair, walked to the door, and 
opened it slightly. Sheltered by the curtains, he 
could easily listen. 

"Was I not right, my darling, in reassuring 
you?” Alice was saying. 

"Reassuring me!” 

"Yes. You heard what the doctor said. A few 
more weeks of courage, and you can both return to 
Vaucluse. But why do you weep, my poor child?" 

"Ah! what souvenirs you evoke,” murmured Flor¬ 
ence, between her sobs. "Shall we ever again see 
that dear country? I still remember our arrival 
over there, my emotion. How I enjoyed his exqui¬ 
site tenderness. My poor Roland! Who could have 
predicted that I should lose him so soon? Undoubt¬ 
edly, you know your brother well; your two lives 
have been too closely linked for you to be ignorant 
of his nobleness, his generosity, and his intelli¬ 
gence. But you cannot imagine what depth of cares¬ 
sing tenderness there is within him. And I have 
tasted those unutterable joys, only to be deprived of 
them forever!” 

"Do not be unjust toward fate,” said Alice, con¬ 
solingly. "See how encouraged the doctor feels. 
Roland and you will spend a few months at Canour- 
Such is Life 2 / 


322 


SUCH IS LIFE 


gues; then you will take him for a long voyage, 
and when you return to Paris, in a year, your beloved 
husband will be fully restored.” 

Florence had dried her tears: loving hearts are 
easily deceived. Roland had not lost one word, 
and a great fear entered his heart. Great heavens! 
was it possible that death would spare him ! Was 
he condemned to live—to undergo for years the mar¬ 
tyrdom that tortured him ! Then, he must recom¬ 
mence this existence, come and go, traverse life, 
with the frightful remorse that devoured him. 

The unhappy man longed for death; there only 
could he find rest and forgetfulness. After the 
meal, he returned to his room, and when he was 
once more in bed, he softly called Florence to his 
side. 

“Sit down here near me,” he said, tenderly. 
“Since we loved each other, have I made you per¬ 
fectly happy?” 

“Roland—” 

“Listen well, my darling, and do not search for 
anything in my words other than what they express. 
Do you know how much I love you? Before I knew 
you, I had never loved. The world believed me 
happy, because I was rich, honored, powerful. 
What is all that without love? At last I met you, 
and I tasted the only delights desirable in this 
world here below. But it does not suffice that I 
have this happiness; it would be nothing to me if 
you had not your share in it—” 


THE SUICIDE 


323 


Tears came to the young wife’*' eyes. She 
clasped her husband’s hands in hers, as she sobbed: 

"You have given me perfect felicity. Since I be¬ 
longed to you, I have thanked God every day for 
placing you in my path." 

Roland’s eyes glittered with a feverish bright¬ 
ness; a slight nervous trembling agitated him. 

"Then, you regret nothing?” he asked, in a strange 
voice. 

"What could I regret?" 

"Understand me well! I want to know if the 
joys that you owe me realize or surpass your girl¬ 
hood dream." 

"Oh! my beloved! " 

"Have the courage to contemplate the truth in 
the face, my dear Florence—I may die to-morrow." 

"Die! " 

"Dry your tears. Is it not the lot of all mortals? 
You will remember me; you will never forget me? 
Oh! tell me so. When I have ceased to exist for 
others, when I am but a handful of dust, I shall 
still live in your beloved memory, shall I not? Yes, 
I know I pain you, 1 pain you very much! But do 
not refuse me the words I ask, and whatever grief I 
may cause you—” 

Florence could scarcely restrain her emotion; she 
fell on her knees at the bedside. 

"No," she cried; "you did not realize my dreams, 
because I never dreamed the delights that I have 
tasted through you! ” 


324 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Roland half arose, extending his arms toward 
her. 

"Look at me—look at me long," he murmured. 

He now held her in a close embrace, as if feeling 
the approach of death, he wanted to carry this radi¬ 
ant image with him into eternity'. 

When she left Roland, Florence felt as if her 
heart were in a vise % She was struck by her hus¬ 
band’swords. Was it the presentiment of his near 
dissolution that roused in him thoughts of beyond 
the grave? Tormented, uneasy, she hastened to 
Alice, and told her all. Madame Duseigneur turned 
very pale, as she listened to her sister-in-law’s ac¬ 
count of the interview. 

"Indeed," she said, "he spoke like a man bidding 
his last farewell." 

"O! I am so unhappy!" cried Florence, melting 
into tears. 

Her despair overwhelmed her. She foresaw an 
abrupt and unexpected denouement, notwithstanding 
the physician’s confidence. Have not the sick a 
mysterious instinct which guides and warns them? 
Roland seemed like one already touched by the 
hand of death, and held to this world only by a 
feeble link. 

"Do not say that I am mad. Misfortune is near; 
it hovers around me," she sobbed, bitterly. 

"Why did you not remain with Roland?" asked 
Alice. 

"Because I could not restrain my tears, and we 


THE SUICIDE 


325 


have promised each other to be always calm and 
cheerful before him.” 

Alice arose. Could her brother be really so ill? 
But no; her sister-in-law was mistaken. All that 
anguish was telling on her nerves, and rendering 
her unable to judge of the truth. 

“Go to your room and rest, my poor child,” 
Alice said. “I will go and judge his condition for 
myself.” 

"When you have seen him, come and tell me.” 

"I will tell you what I think; I promise.” 

Roland, as usual, was awake. He would have 
given half his wealth to taste a few hours of peaceful 
slumber; to escape from the grinning phantoms 
of Mrs. Readish and of Francis Chevrin. And 
it would be always so! There would be no truce 
to this anguish! Now, illness in its turn, betrayed 
him. He could no longer hope that it would end 
his tortures. He no longer had the courage to re¬ 
main a prey to this lacerating remorse. He would 
go to Death , since Death would not come to him. 
For the first time, Roland conceived the idea of su¬ 
icide. A dying man to kill himself? What irony! He 
had only to stretch out his hand to grasp his re¬ 
volver. Why not? His firm hand would not even 
tremble. A bullet in the heart, and all would be 
over! Then he thought of the tumult it would 
create in the house; the servants would run wildly 
in affright, Alice and Florence would utter terrified 
cries. And the world, what would the world say? 


326 


SUCH IS LIFE 


Roland had an exact perception of the scand’al his 
voluntary death would cause. What fine matter for 
a newspaper articlel without counting the en¬ 
venomed words of the salons; for society would 
invent the most improbable stories. Does one end 
his days on account of illness? Nonsense! Well- 
informed people would affirm, with a knowing air, 
that this suicide had been brought about by very 
mysterious causes; and they would throw mire on 
his sweet Florence, on Alice, perhaps; they would 
make researches in the private life of these two 
adored beings. The unhappy man was struggling 
between two temptations—to live, or not to 
live. 

The door was suddenly opened, and Alice en¬ 
tered. Florence’ s words troubled her. She wanted 
to judge of his condition for herself; and yet, the 
brother and sister never found themselves face to 
face without a feeling of dread. The young woman 
walked slowly toward the bed, trying to suppress 
the agitation of her voice. 

"How do you feel this evening?” she asked. 

Roland did not utter a word, but abruptly seized 
his sister’s hand; and raising himself on his pil¬ 
low, he looked into her face. 

Oh! what an ardent prayer in the eyes of the 
dying man! How eloquently they spoke, imploring 
one word, one single word! Roland did not dare 
tell the thoughts that agitated his brain: the obses¬ 
sion of suicide, the wild desire of ending it all. 


THE SUICIDE 


327 


How he wished Alice might guess! Troubled by 
his burning gaze, she attempted to step back; but 
he clasped her close to him, and his eyes still re¬ 
tained their poignant anxiety. Twice Alice felt 
an impulse to embrace the brother she had hitherto 
loved, to pronounce the supreme word of peace; a 
superior will sealed her lips. Then the light went 
out of his eyes, and tears rolled down the cheeks 
wrinkled by suffering. He allowed his sister’s 
hand to drop, as if exhausted by the effort, and his 
head fell back on the pillow. Alice went away 
thoughtful and sad. Her brother’s condition did 
not seem aggravated. It was only natural that 
Florence should be anxious, and that, in the fear of 
a near end, she should exaggerate the state of the 
patient. 

Again Roland was alone. Then, even at this 
supreme hour, Alice refused to forgive him! It 
only remained for him to die. An idea had come 
to him. He knew how to kill himself so that no 
one should suspect the sinister truth. They would 
believe he had succumbed to heart disease; and on 
the contrary, he had only to extend his hand, to 
clutch the vial containing the digitalis! A faint 
smile passed over the dying man’s lips. He was 
nearing port! Like a flash, his whole life passed 
before him. After so many struggles, so much 
work, to come to this in the end! He regretted 
neither fortune nor the vulgar joys of existence; 
no; he wept bitterly over the two beings he left 


328 * 


SUCH IS LIFE 


behind him: Alice, his beloved sister; Florence, 
the adored wife, the blonde fairy with blue eyes, 
the virgin smile. 


X 


CONCLUSION * 

The church was filled to overflowing. Not only 
were the invited friends there, but also the curious 
throng. The latter were even more numerous than 
the former. In Paris, when one occupies a promi¬ 
nent position, it is impossible to die quietly. To 
begin with the newspapers: In the editorial rooms, 
"important personages” are divided into three cate¬ 
gories: The viort d'echo, in which the death is sim¬ 
ply announced in three lines; the viort de filet (a 
filet is a short article, limited to one-third of a col¬ 
umn). But the supreme honor is accorded to the 
morte dechronique. This last obtains an article on 
the first page. 

Roland was classed among the viort de chronique. 
For forty-eight hours the papers sung his praises, 
and lauded his inexhaustible charity. They re¬ 
called his painful struggles and his courage; his 
voyage in the Far West, and his rapidly amassed 
wealth. Then the publicistes spoke of the grand 
dinners, the beautiful fetes given at the mansion of 
the Avenue Friedland. Naturally they spoke of 
the celebrated Madame Salbert, "of her successes, 
of her creations.” Excellent matter for a chroni¬ 
cler who understood his business. 

329 



330 


SUCH IS LIFE 


In the church were whispered the bonmots that 
Roland had or had not said, and which the clever 
writers loaned him. Scarcely had they ceased 
their gossip when Lassalle began the “Dies Irae” in 
his vibrating voice. And notwithstanding the 
solemnity of the surroundings, Mme. Resenheim 
could not help bending forward and whispering to 
her neighbor, Mme. de Ganges: 

“I adore Lassalle; and then, the ‘Dies Irae’ always 
moves me.” 

As usual, Mme. de Ganges was acting as cor¬ 
rectly in the church as if she were in a circus. 

"Decidedly, my dear,” she whispered in reply; 
“marriage is not a success with Maud. Mrs. 
Vivian was much prettier than Mme. Lafaurie; 
but then, she does as she pleases with her hus¬ 
band. Such a fine man: to please his better half, 
he left his dear mountains—” 

There was a silence, then Audiberte added as a 
conclusion: 

“Poor Florence! how sorrowful she must be!” 

“Oh! yes; her husband was so good—so excel¬ 
lent." 

At a little distance the clan of clubmen, com¬ 
rades of the circle, were chatting. 

“Just imagine,” Ren6 Lestourmel was saying; 
“we played until eight o’clock in the morning. 
Such a game of poker!—and the General raked in 
the pot.” 

“Bah! that poor Maurec was fleeced again?” 


CONCLUSION 


331 


“Like a collegian. Those old veterans are so 
innocent. ” 

“Hush! Rose Caron is singing the ‘Pie Jesu.' 

And when the last notes had died away, in the 
midst of an attention that almost resembled devo¬ 
tion, Fernand de Quinsac assumed a grave air to 
remark: 

“Poor Mme. Montfranchet! how sorrowful she 
must be! ” 

“Oh ! yes; her husband was so good—so excel¬ 
lent. ” 

In the first rows were the men of finance, bankers 
and brokers. Although as talkative as the others, 
they at least concealed their worldly indifference 
beneath a certain gravity of demeanor. Their 
chattering was scarcely noticeable; some hardly 
opened their lips, others concealed them with their 
fingers. 

“So the bonds have been issued,” whispered a 
broker to his neighbor. “I wager that in three 
weeks they will go up to 470.” 

“Do you think so?” 

“I am sure of it. Ask the Count de Ryan; he is 
always well-informed.” 

“I know, I know; I dined at the English Embassy 
the other day, and these gentlemen make no secret 
of their intentions. Whatever party is in power, 
neither whigs nor tories will dare evacuate Egypt.” 

“Poor Mme. Montfranchet! how sorrowful she 
must be! ” 


332 


SUCH IS LIFE 


“Oh, yes! her husband was so good—so excel¬ 
lent.” 

In one of the side aisles, the more intimate 
friends were exchanging their varied impressions. 

“What a terribly sudden death! Doctor Allouard 
was saying only the other day—” 

“What was the matter?" 

This question responded to the general curiosity. 
Some one added: 

“ What did he die of?" 

At funerals this phrase is de rigueur. Not that it 
is a proof of interest in the departed one; but each 
person is anxious to assure himself that he is not 
suffering from the same disease that has carried 
off his friend. Notwithstanding the long para¬ 
graphs in the newspapers, the public was not very 
well informed. They only knew that Florence had 
entered her husband’s room and found him dead. In 
fact, this abrupt denouement did not astonish any¬ 
body; angina pectoris often brings distressing sur¬ 
prises. Doctor Allouard alone perhaps knew the 
truth. Finding the vial containing the digitalis 
empty, the physician had guessed all. He believed 
that in an access of sharp suffering, Roland had de¬ 
cided to end his life. 

The funeral services were drawing to a close, and 
now all these Parisiennes , in their elegant, somber 
toilets, all the Parisiens , in a hurry to run to their 
pleasures or business, approached Aristide with a 
mournful and sympathetic air. Very pale, his eyes 


CONCLUSION 


333 


suffused with tears, Roland’s brother-in-law was in 
his place as chief mourner. And a little further 
on, disdainful of worldly conventionalities, kneel¬ 
ing on prie-Dieu , Alice and Florence, with face con¬ 
cealed beneath a long veil, wept despairingly. 

There are many kinds of handshakings; that of 
the wedding, which is exchanged with a gay air and 
a meaning smile; that of the funeral, which is 
grave, solemn and sympathetic. 

Aristide had to undergo all these nauseating 
formalities. While the invited guests filed out of 
the church, confused phrases came from the un¬ 
dulating, chattering crowd. 

"It is a great loss.” 

"He must have left an enormous fortune.” 

"Oh! his widow will marry again: she is so 
young!” 

"And she has no children.” 

They praised Roland’s virtues, his honor, his 
disinterestedness, his generosity; and no one sus¬ 
pected the sinister drama of that extinguished life, 
and that this man, so much admired, so celebrated, 
had strangled a woman, cut a man’s throat, and 
stolen a fortune. 

So it is in life, where all is but vanity and false¬ 
hood, where God alone knows the truth, the God 
who judges, punishes and recompenses. 

* * * * * * 

After her husband’s death, Florence was very ill, 
and for six weeks Alice and Nelly almost de- 


334 


SUCH IS LIFE 


spaired of her life. The poor child suffered atro¬ 
ciously. In her delirium she continually called for 
her beloved Roland, the cherished being she had 
lost, and whom she would never, never again 
see. 

When she arose from her sick-bed, the unhappy 
woman was completely broken down. Emaciated, 
pale, the light gone out of her eyes, she resembled 
those poor creatures dominated by sufferings, and 
who go through life with hearts full of despair. As 
soon as she recovered sufficient strength, the young 
woman went to Canourgues, accompanied by Aris¬ 
tide, Alice, and Nelly, who would not leave her 
side. 

Aristide now knew the truth. Alice had told 
him of her terrible discovery. Both believed that 
Roland had killed himself in a fit of remorse. M. 
Duseigneur often shook his head sadly as he looked 
at Florence’s livid countenance. 

“Why not reveal to her little by little the secret 
you have penetrated?” he said one day to his wife. 
“She is so much to be pitied. We should accustom 
her slowly to the thought that he whom she weeps 
was her mother’s murderer.” 

Alice’s brow contracted as she replied with 
bitter emotion: 

“Do you not feel that she would be still more 
unhappy? She lives only through memory—may 
she preserve it with its melancholy perfume! She 
has no joys but the dear illusions that lull her in- 


CONCLUSION 


335 


consolable grief. Let her weep. Better the love 
that suffers and remembers, than the false repose 
tasted in forgetfulness.” 


THE END 


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430 pages. Illustrated with 17 photo-gravures 


No. 72 . 
No. 7J. 


By Lieut. Alvarado M. Fuller. U. S. Army, 
half-tones on enameled paper. 


i2mo. 4:2 pages. Illustrated with t6 


The T ush rangers. A Yankee's Adventures During a Second 
Trip to Australia. 

By Wm. H. Thornes. 12100. 480 pages ; if> full-page engravings. 

The Chouans. 


No. 


74. 


By Honore de Balzac With 100 engravings on wood, by Leveille, from drawings 
v fulien de Llant. Newly translated into English by George Saintsbury. 

A Chronicle of the Reign of Charles LX. 


Translated from the French of Prosper Merinee, by George Saintsbury 
wi -i no engravings on wood from drawings by Toudouze. 


Illustrated 


Above books are printed on a superior quality of calendered paper ant 
artistically bound in enameled paper covers, with appropriate designs in colors, 
he) aie tot sale at all bookstores and on all railroad trains. 


/. AlRD & LEE, Publishers, Chicago, III. 

























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